


Like Real People Do

by grayola



Series: Everything With You [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Escort Service, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Online Relationship, Sexual Inexperience, Slow Burn, Social Media, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:27:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 213,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23535271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayola/pseuds/grayola
Summary: At the age of 26, Mickey Milkovich gets his first apartment, his first wifi connection, and his first kiss. How he gets from wifi to kissing is a complicated story.Mickey is socially anxious. Ian is a frustratingly lovable escort working through an app. Mickey downloads said app. The rest is history.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Everything With You [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1874386
Comments: 2037
Kudos: 2936





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm taking full artistic liberties with this fic. Though the fictitious app in this story does not claim to be a prostitution service, it uh, definitely is to some degree, and if it were real, I'm sure there would be legal issues. We're just going to ignore all that, though. 
> 
> Guys, I honestly don't write much angst. There's going to be some discomfort and frustration in this fic, but I just really wanted to write something happy and gentle. Mickey is so sweet and nervous about exploring his sexuality for the first time, and Ian is kind and enthusiastic and just wants to love him. I hope you'll enjoy!

After the shit with his dad goes down, after he's gotten beaten to a pulp one too many times, after too many bad drug runs and near-misses and bullet grazes, and after his brothers take off to do fuck knows what in fuck knows where, Mickey Milkovich begins to _scrape_. He's scraped by enough, he figures, and he's gotten into far too many scrapes, and he looks at himself in the mirror one day and thinks he'll try _one last thing_ before he eats a bullet. 

He begins to scrape together every last penny he can find, anything he can get his hands on, and he _earns_. Uncle Ronnie knows a guy who gets him his first job, and it's startlingly, stupidly legal security work. He opens up a motherfuckin' bank account and has his own debit card, and after months and months of this, he realizes that it actually isn't that hard to not feel like a piece of shit all the time once your psychotic son of a bitch father's been shanked in prison.

By the time he's twenty-five, he's moved on to not only having a job but a job in which he makes thirty-thousand a year and has decent hours and health insurance. And he's actually kind of good at it, even if he has to wear the ugly-ass khakis every day. 

By the time he's twenty-six, he's put down a security deposit on a $600 per month one-bedroom, discounted to $500 because he on-demand helps the kooky landlady with her yard work and broken appliances. For the first time in his life, he's able to own a legally-obtained iPhone with a real data plan, and he gets himself a cheap laptop at Best Buy and has the fuckin' AT&T guy install wifi he's never gonna have to steal from a neighbor. 

He's not living a life of luxury, but he budgets enough money to buy groceries and pay his bills, and at the end of the month, he has a couple hundred left over for his savings account.

\---

He's been working security at the mall for seven months now. He doesn't _love_ it, it doesn't inspire him and shit, but it's steady, and his coworkers are alright, and it mostly satisfies his need for bustin' skulls even if he has to do it very, very gently. He gets Sbarro for lunch every day, and he gets to yell at asshole teenagers and tackle kleptos. Sometimes when it's early and not much is going on, he gets to put in his earbuds and listen to 80s rock jams while he has his coffee, ignores his overly chatty coworkers, and watches the mall come alive.

He spent a lot of his time seven months ago ignoring people—people coming in and out of the security office at work and going up and down the staircase in his apartment building. So now he gets to rest and deal with the minimum amount of bullshit with the minimum amount of effort since people have realized they're not gonna get much out of him. He doesn't _care_ about Sean's baby, and he doesn't _care_ about Stacey's daughter's “lesbian exploration phase” at college. He doesn't fuckin' care about the carbs in the coffee creamer and how keto's the way to go.

So, people don't talk to him, really, and though he has his very own iPhone and his very own data plan, _he_ doesn't really talk to much of anybody, either. Mandy, sometimes. She's persistent with her worrying, though they don't see much of each other. A dealer or two when his weed stash runs low. 

Mostly he just clocks his 9 to 5, Monday through Friday, comes home, gets some food in him, and mills around the apartment until he's sleepy enough to go to bed.

He doesn't _love_ it, it doesn't inspire him and shit, but it's steady, and it's normal, and sometimes it makes him feel like his first twenty years of fighting to survive every goddamn minute were somebody else's bad dream.

He gets lonely, maybe, when everything gets real quiet and safe, when he's lying in bed and his neighbors aren't bangin' it out and the dishwasher's off and there aren't any sirens in the distance. When everything's still. That quiet makes him think too much, and he thinks about things he's done, things he hasn't, things he probably never will.

The problem with not fighting to survive every goddamn minute is you've then gotta use up those minutes, somehow. Mickey's not sure he knows how.

He plays video games on the weekends, having splurged on an Xbox One and a handful of games after his first mall paycheck. It's something he's good at, and it's mildly entertaining; he likes first person shooters and blowin' up shit. He easily knocks down a six pack and spends a sexy Saturday belching and swearing at _Call of Duty: Modern Warfare_.

He spends a lot of time in his boxers and tank-top.

Mandy gets on to him about dating, sometimes. She isn't sappy, has a more realistic view of life and Southside reality than most people, but she still has a good heart in a bad situation. She dates and fucks messed up dudes who shit all over her, and she's always cleaning up debris left by somebody. So when she tells him he should date, he doesn't resent her for it. She's soft inside like she always was, even though a Milkovich childhood doled out enough to turn bellies to steel. She cares.

She thinks he fucks, though, but he doesn't do that, either. Hasn't since he was seventeen and unenthusiastically screwing Angie Zahgo and Amy Murphy so his dad wouldn't think he was a pillow-bitin' bitch. Mandy knows he's gay, and things are bad in Southside but not as bad as they were when he was seventeen, so everything's mostly okay. But he's not going to a fuckin' parade and he sure as hell ain't puttin' on eyeliner and lamé and heading down to Boystown.

So this is how he finds himself at twenty-six: steady but alone as fuck, horny in a deep-itch kind of way, and surrounded by the untapped resources of technology.

He doesn't fuck, so he watches porn sometimes, though a lot of it freaks him out a little, if he's honest. He likes the vanilla things, really, and he feels like a big ol' pussy inputting “making love” and “boyfriends” into the search bar on a website with banners advertising videos about getting rawed by a twelve-inch monster cock. The search terms he uses are embarrassing, but the results are what he wants: lots of normal sex between people who look like they might be genuinely enjoying themselves.

He's on the site one Saturday, clicking through a "Sensual Blowjob" playlist, when an ad catches his eye. It's for an iOS app called kestrel, in lowercase, and the banner is just minimalistic enough to look clean and stylized on a page in which the standard involves flames and dudes with jizz on their faces.

 _Hunt. Swoop. Love with No Strings._ it says, and Mickey scoffs.

The ad's gone when he clicks to page two of the playlist, and he forgets about it for a few days until he sees it again. He's on his phone this time, and he's got his earbuds in and his hand halfway down his pants, and there's something about the design of the ad, how stupidly and yet not obnoxiously trendy it is, like an Apple brand dating app, that entices Mickey to click it.

The ad opens up the App Store on his phone, and he reads about kestrel with the kind of expression one might have on one's face whilst reading about oil drilling on Mars. 

It's a subscription service—four tiers, four price levels. Mickey had thought it was some kind of dating app like Tinder or Grindr, but it's more like a sex app if he's pickin' up what they're puttin' down. You pay a small fee, you email with one of their “professional dates.” Pay more and you can send instant messages. Then at the next tier it's video chat and phone calls. Lastly, for an unfuckingbelievable amount of money, you can hook up in person.

It's a fuckin' escort app disguised as a trendy, multi-tiered dating service. Mickey's never clicked off of something so fast in his life.

The problem is that once he's clicked on the ad, the porn site thinks he's interested. He spends another week of masturbation with that minimalist-ass banner floating somewhere to the left or right of the video he's trying to watch of two dudes bangin' in a hotel with oceanfront views. 

It's not a mood killer _exactly_ , but it's kind of all he can think about when the blond guy's riding the hell outta the hot Puerto Rican. Mickey's horny, okay, and it's that deep-itch horny, and no amount of jerkin' it's gonna scratch it. He thinks he's been deep-itch horny since puberty. Experimentation with girls gave him decent orgasms but like, he sure as fuck ain't ridden the hell out of anybody on a white-sheeted hotel bed. 

He may not have a lot of goals and aspirations. Deep down, he may still carry with him that “fucked for life” motto he wore like armor when he was in and out of juvie as a teenager. But he _wants_ to have good sex at some point in his life, and he literally cannot fathom himself meeting a guy to fuck in a way that won't eviscerate his soul from the anxiety. Because no matter how you slice and dice it, he's a twenty-six year old semi-closeted gay dude who's never even touched another dick. He also doesn't really talk to anybody ever, and he thinks love's a shitshow scam yet trusting somebody enough to let them rail him without some kind of personal connection is unimaginable.

These are the things he thinks about when it's quiet. This is why he needs noise.

This is why he downloads kestrel.

\---

It's pretty innocuous for an app in which you're meant to pay for somebody to fuck you. In fact, if Mickey _wasn't_ pickin' up what they were puttin' down, he would think it was a place for rich bitches to find somebody to divorce in three years.

He inputs his first name, age, city, and email, and in a very Cool Millennial fashion, is asked to “swoop” to help the app find his perfect match. It's Tinder, really, not that Mickey has ever used it, but he's given a batch of about 20 stock photos of hot dudes with brief descriptions and is asked to swipe based on his interests. 

Mickey swipes “no” for most of them and receives a message encouraging him to broaden his horizons. He goes through the rest of the batch a little faster, knowing he tends to swipe “no” when he scrutinizes. He can't help it, though. The descriptions are fucking stupid. What piece of Southside trash cares about the goddamn environment? And what the fuck is hot yoga?

Finally, the app seems satisfied, and Mickey is treated to a loading animation of a featureless falcon flying around his phone screen. After a minute, he's told that the Perfect Match has been found, but he must first select his package choice. 

Typical.

He quickly selects the cheapest option for now, no more expensive than a couple trips to Pinkberry, and double-clicks the side button on his phone to pay through his Apple account. In retrospect, he probably should have read the fine print more carefully because he soon finds that the Bronze Package includes email communication _only_. He doesn't even get a picture of the guy. What a fucking scam.

Mickey's pissed and is made even more so when he checks the in-app email tab to find that kestrel hasn't even actually matched him up with anyone yet. His match, once found, will supposedly contact him within 48 hours.

Fuck this. Mickey closes out of the app, fumes for a second at the email from PayPal alerting him of a recent charge through his Apple account, and spends a few minutes berating himself for spending real money on a sex app. It's embarrassing as hell, and no amount of _Red Dead Redemption 2_ can make him forget it.

\---

While making his rounds Monday afternoon, Mickey receives an email stating that he has a message in his kestrel inbox from his match. He freezes for a moment, limbs turning to Jell-O with the adrenaline shakes. 

It isn't that he's forgotten about it, but he did such an admirable job over the weekend of Trying Not to Think About It that he just carried that carefree mentality over to Monday. He rubs his hands over his arms, which are stupidly jittery as fuck, then adjusts his headset in an absent way before continuing his loop of the food court. He continues Not Thinking About It for the entire four hours left in his shift, and by the time he's reached his apartment, he's talked his shakes down to vibrations that he doesn't even notice unless he Thinks About Them (which he doesn't).

He's only a little nervous, Mickey thinks, because this is a dude who might fuck him at some point, and well, sex is kind of a big, weird thing for him right now.

He's disappointed when he opens up the kestrel email to find that the message is scripted as fuck:

\------------------------ 

_Hi Mickey,_

_It's nice to meet you! I'm Ian, your kestrel match. I'm 23 years old, from Chicago, and I like keeping fit, spending time with family, and meeting new people from all across the United States! Please tell me about yourself, and let me know your interests when it comes to how you hope to use this app! I'm here for you._

_-Ian_

\------------------------ 

This is embarrassing. Mickey scrubs a hand through his hair and has the strange desire to search his apartment for anyone or anything that could be watching him do something like respond to this. Which he does. Slowly and methodically and with no shortage of annoyance.

\------------------------ 

_26/chicago/who cares. This is weird as fuck. Are you actually a person or a bot tryin to scam desperate assholes out of their cash?_

\------------------------ 

Mickey fumes silently for the rest of the evening and contemplates cancelling his subscription no less than four times. But after reading the “Thanks for your payment!” email twice, he figures that since he's already made his non-refundable payment for the week, he may as well keep it for a bit, at least until Saturday when he would be due to make his second payment. There's no point in cancelling it now.

He's having dinner and watching Game Show Network when he receives a response.

\------------------------ 

_Mickey,_

_Congratulations on being smart. That WAS a bot, actually. Well, sort of. It's an automated message sent out whenever I've been matched with someone. This is me, though. A real boy._

_I'm curious about your “desperate assholes” comment. Are you implying that only desperate assholes use this app? ;)_

_And yeah, thanks for giving me your age and location, but I do actually care about the rest of it. If I don't know what you're into, I don't know how to be for you, and this is kind of my job, so..._

_Have a good night._

_Ian_

\------------------------ 

Sarcastic little punk. Mickey swipes a thumb across his mouth and reads Ian's message twice more before closing out of the app with a huff. He finishes up his dinner, some pasta thing that had looked easy, dumps his dishes, and grabs a beer before returning to the couch.

He opens kestrel. Contemplates. Sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, he shrugs and types back.

\------------------------ 

_You can cool it with the attitude. I don't really do this kinda thing, just saw an ad for it and thought I'd fuck around on it for a while, see what it is. Not sure what I'm into so feel free to just be whatever. Surprise me._

\------------------------ 

Ian replies before Mickey can even close out the app.

\------------------------ 

_Mickey,_

_Most people like to personalize their experience as much as possible. Maybe I can give you some options? Dom/sub? Boy next door? Daddy stuff? Boss/secretary? I'm okay with most RP, but I don't do rape, animals, or underage, and I don't love humiliation or pain play, though I'm willing to negotiate depending on the client's specific interests._

_I'd be happy to surprise you, but everybody's different, and I don't want to press the wrong buttons by accident. Hazards of the job._

_No sarcasm or attitude, huh? Noted. Sorry about that, by the way._

_Night._

_Ian_

\------------------------ 

Mickey's stomach turns looking at his options. He's not really into any of it, at least he doesn't _think_ , and he's decidedly weirded out by a lot of it. Maybe the boy next door shit would be okay if he had to choose, but he honestly can't imagine what that would even look like. 

\------------------------ 

_You just do you man. I dunno, I like regular stuff or whatever, none of that freaky shit. I'm kinda new I guess._

_I don't actually care about the sarcasm so you can just be normal if you want, whatever that is for you._

_How would somebody send an email to an animal??_

_See ya._

\------------------------ 

Ian doesn't respond until Mickey's lunch break the next day. He's in the food court, eating his slice of extra pepperoni and flipping through a magazine at a table in the back when his phone vibrates against his thigh.

There's a little wobble in his gut when he sees the notification banner— _ **kestrel:** (1) new message from Ian_—and he hates himself for it. He's curious, though, and all thoughts of waiting until he's off his shift to check it go out the window with a sigh.

\------------------------ 

_Mickey,_

_Cool. Thanks for letting me know. I have to be honest: I'm not really used to being myself on here, but I'll try. :)_

_One more thing I do need to ask. Could you tell me what you mean by “regular stuff”? Do you mean like regular sex stuff or regular romance stuff? And what does that entail for you? I'll do the best I can to be accommodating._

_And about the animal thing... You ask the wrong question. The right question is “How would an animal respond to an email?” And the answer is mortifying. It's also the reason I almost quit this job after my first week._

_Ian_

\------------------------ 

Mickey finishes his pizza with an upward tilt to the corner of his mouth and heads back to the security office to check in.

On his rounds for the rest of the day, he thinks about Ian's question. He doesn't know why the app's gotta be so invasive. Regular stuff is regular stuff, goddammit. Normal stuff. Like search terms “making love” and “boyfriends” stuff. How does he even begin to spell that out without sounding like a complete fuckin' imbecile? 

The whole thing's embarrassing. He turns off the banner notifications on his phone just in case he has it out in public and someone tries to snoop, and at that moment, thank God, a DualShock controller gets swiped from GameStop and Mickey gets to go tackle a bitch.

\--- 

He waits until after dinner to respond to the email, lying on his back on the couch with his phone held up in front of his face.

\------------------------ 

_I dunno what I mean by it, just normal stuff I guess. How regular people bang, not like some porno shit. This is fuckin weird man. I don't know why you gotta know this._

_You say you don't really act like yourself on here. Do people just like pay you to tell them you wanna spank them?_

\------------------------ 

It must be Ian's regular time to be online, as once again, Mickey gets a relatively quick response.

\------------------------ 

_Hi Mickey,_

_Sorry if my questions seem too personal. I mean, this is sort of a professional relationship app, so there are things I should know so I can do my job effectively. The client has the power to control their experience with me, and to do that, they have to tell me what they like. From your email, I get the impression that you prefer a more traditional, vanilla experience. Awesome. Thanks for telling me! Remember: you're in control of the story here, so feel free to let me know at any point if you want to change things up or try something new._

_People like what they like, and people like different things. So yeah, sometimes people pay me to tell them that I want to spank them. People also pay me to pretend to be a gardener who wants to trim their hedges or a doctor unconventionally treating a patient with a persistent erection. As long as it's safe, sane, and consensual, I'm cool with most of it. But that's what I meant by being a little inexperienced with being myself on here. It happens—some guys just want the boyfriend experience—but even with that, I play it up a little. You kind of have to in this line of work._

_So are you good with getting started? Do you want to tell me about yourself?_

_Like I said in my automated email—I'm into fitness. Not obsessively, but it's important to me to keep in shape, so I try to stay active. But I like to be lazy sometimes, too, and can spend a Saturday sleeping and watching Netflix. I have a big family with a ton of siblings, and I see them when I can. When it comes to my looks, I'm like 6 ft and relatively toned/athletic. I'm a ginger, so I can get pretty freckly when I've been in the sun, but I'm pale always._

_What about you?_

_Ian_

\------------------------ 

_I don't know man. I'm not really good with talking about myself. I don't care about staying active or whatever but I guess I'm in ok shape. I have black hair and blue eyes. I like music and watching stuff on TV sometimes._

_How does this work again?_

\------------------------ 

_Thanks, Mickey!_

_You tell me. We can email about whatever you want. Most clients who are looking to get steamy start it off, or tell me to, and we sort of go back and forth from there. But I'm still not sure what you're looking for? Are your intentions primarily sexual, or is there something else you'd prefer to focus on?_

_Let me know._

_Ian_

\------------------------ 

_Jesus christ, you sound like a shrink. Stop being so formal. I don't fuckin know what I wanna focus on. I don't do this kinda shit._

_Not really into the email sex thing right now I guess, it's too weird._

\------------------------ 

_Baby steps. Okay._

_It's cool that you don't do this but like... Why'd you sign up?_

_Ian_

\------------------------ 

_Just kinda fuckin around man. Bored._

\------------------------ 

_You said that before, but I don't really know what you mean. I'm not sure I've ever signed up for a paid subscription service for the hell of it and then expressed very little interest in actually utilizing the service._

\------------------------ 

_Chill your tits. I don't really know what you want me to tell you. I signed up cuz I was bored. Like I said I don't know what I'm doing on here._

\------------------------ 

_It's fine. I'm just sort of tasked with entertaining you, and you don't seem to want to be entertained? And this isn't about the sex thing. I've told you—it's rare, but I've had clients who just wanted me to write sweet, relationship-y things to them. That's cool. But I literally don't know what you want from me, and I'm getting paid to make sure you get what you want, so..._

\------------------------ 

_You just let me worry about whether I'm entertained or not, Gladiator. Probably gonna cancel on Friday anyway. This fuckin blows._

\------------------------ 

_Great._

_Enjoy your night._

_Ian_

\------------------------ 

Mickey isn't _actually_ finished talking to Ian when he gets that last email, but he figures it'd be a bitch move to keep it going after that. It's getting late anyway, and he's tired, and if he's honest, he's a little drained from those email exchanges.

He doesn't mean to be an asshole most of the time, but all of Ian's _dumb fucking questions_ and his calm, patient, professional demeanor were grating as hell. And why does Mickey have to have a reason to do anything? Why does he have to have _intentions_? At least ones that Ian needs to know about. Nowhere in that app description does it say you have to tell your match about how you wanna be fucked and whether you want it to be with words first.

None of this, however, stops Mickey from grabbing his laptop once he's settled in bed and pulling up Google. He searches “Ian+Chicago” and obviously doesn't find shit. And he fucking _knows_ how search engines work but embarrassingly, “Ian+Chicago+Ginger” is also something he tries, and finally he tries “Ian+Chicago+kestrel” and receives just one hit that gives him very little information. It's just an app review site where someone offhandedly mentions his name in his overall review of the app's features.

Stupid ginger fucking asshole with the invasive questions.

Mickey knows very well that he's being unreasonable, but that's entirely beside the point.

He thinks about their exchange during his Wednesday shift. There's some sort of midnight movie premiere situation happening that night in the mall's cinema, so he's putting in a couple hours of overtime for crowd control purposes. There's lots of little geeky fuckers running about, poking their noses in shit and trying to run off with or otherwise mess with the decorative props lying around. Mickey takes to standing by this giant-ass egg thing and yelling, “Too fuckin' close, bitch” whenever some little twat tries to climb up on it or in it.

He reads all of their emails from beginning to end during his break, and at some point between chasing a kid in a cape who's trying to steal a cardboard cutout and breaking up a fight in the ticket line, he decides that maybe he needs to apologize to Ian.

Which is bullshit, of course, because it's not like he did anything to apologize for, and it's not like he knows the guy or gives a fuck about him. But he read and reread his first sarcastic email and then the one about why he almost quit his job after the first week, and then he thought about how Ian apparently gets all freckly in the sun, and well. 

He smokes two cigarettes on his way home after his shift. Once inside his apartment, he heats up some leftovers from the night before and watches an episode of _Criminal Minds_ with his soggy burritos and a beer.

It's 10:30 by the time he gets around to opening up the app, and when he does, he's surprised to see that Ian's already messaged him.

\------------------------ 

_Hi Mickey,_

_I just wanted to apologize for the tone of my emails last night. I guess I should have been more understanding and, rather than being so short, should have asked you more about why you had such a negative experience with the app._

_I also should have been a little less pushy in general and should have been more empathetic about the fact that this is clearly your first time doing something like this. Not everybody's ready to jump into it from the start, and though it's not what I'm used to, I should have been a little gentler with introducing you to the way it works. My job is to be what you need, and reading back over my emails, I clearly wasn't._

_Thanks for downloading kestrel. I know you said you would probably cancel on Friday, but I can send you a link for a more immediate cancellation that will allow you to be refunded for the remaining days in the cycle. Let me know if you're interested._

_Ian_

\------------------------ 

Stupid ginger fucker, apologizing for shit that ain't even his fault. Mickey clicks “reply.”

\------------------------ 

_Yeah yeah, chill. I'm not gonna leave you a bad review in the app store so you can save the apologies._

_I was being kind of a dick to you for no reason. But I was being real when I said I don't know what I want out of this and that I'm kinda new to the whole thing. I thought I wanted one thing when I bought the stupid subscription but I don't really know if I'm all that comfortable with it, at least yet. And like I know this is a fuckin sex app so I'm sorta wondering why I'm doing this if I don't really wanna do all the sex stuff right now._

_I'm not good at getting my thoughts out or anything and I was always shit at English in school so my writing sucks, but I did want to say sorry or whatever._

_Mickey_

\------------------------ 

Ian doesn't reply until Mickey's filling out some boring-ass paperwork in the security office after his lunch break on Thursday. He'd turned the message notifications back on—just because—and feels the vibration against his thigh as he's scrawling out a report about the stupid cardboard cutout kid from the night before.

He considers not checking it until later, but well, he's curious, so he pulls his phone out of his ugly khakis and swipes open the app.

\------------------------ 

_Hey,_

_Thanks for your reply. I've got to be honest: you're really different from my usual clientele. I know you don't want me to be all soft, but I just want to say that it's all cool with me, and I really want to respect your boundaries, so please tell me when I'm not._

_I also want to say that it's fine to not know what you want yet. But if you want to keep the app, maybe we could just talk about random topics? We could start over with a mutual understanding that this isn't a sex thing, at least not now, and go from there?_

_You didn't seem super comfortable telling me about yourself, which is fine, but maybe you could tell me about your day?_

_Ian_

\------------------------ 

Mickey feels a strange, creeping heat rise up from his chest and skim the sides of his neck toward his face. He thinks he's blushing, which is stupid, and after reading the email twice more, he pockets his phone and tries to go back to the paperwork. 

Soft bitch.

He struggles his way through the rest of the report, and then gets out of the security office for something else to do to keep his mind off the situation at hand—that Ian just offered to be his friend. Or at least a friend Mickey's paying for. 

And the thing about this whole damn situation is that talking to someone like this, telling them about his day, asking and answering questions, that's like, as foreign to him as fuckin' cybersex and almost as scary. Mickey may have had his brothers and maybe Mandy to vent to a little about shit as a kid, but he can count on one hand the number of non-relatives he's considered a friend in his entire life. In fact, he doesn't even need all five fingers for that.

Sure, there were kids in fuckin' elementary—everybody had kiddie friends in elementary—but he didn't have a house he could bring anyone over to, and he didn't have a family that would let him attend sleepovers or birthday parties. 

Milkoviches don't have friends. Not like normal ones, at least, who do and talk about normal things.

Iggy and Colin have always been tight, and Mandy's always fucking around with some guy, but Mickey's lone wolf'd it for most of his life and has made it a point to be mostly okay with that.

So when Ian suggests just getting to know each other a bit, Mickey _blushes_. It's dumb as hell.

He patrols the mall for a couple hours, closing out his shift with a cigarette at the back exit, and hoofs it home. 

After he's changed out of his work clothes, he microwaves and eats a chicken pot pie while fucking around on his laptop, and finally, _finally_ , when he can't actually stand it anymore, emails Ian.

\------------------------ 

_Yeah whatever, softy._

_Talking about my day's never gonna be riveting, but ok. I do security stuff. It's mostly kinda boring but it passes the time I guess, and the hours are good. Off on weekends and mostly free at night unless I'm doing overtime. So anyway, today I worked til 5 and came home. Made dinner and that's about it. It's pretty much my everyday thing so like I said, not riveting. I guess that's what you wanted to know??_

\------------------------ 

He's monumentally bad at this, and he wants to shoot himself in the face once he rereads the email he sends. Boring as fuck and can't even hold a conversation. He didn't even ask Ian about his day.

For a second, he considers sending a follow-up, but Ian's already responded.

\------------------------ 

_Hi Mickey,_

_Security, huh? Good to know you're out there keeping the citizens of this great city safe and secure. ;) Sorry your day was boring, but I'm sure you've got cool things happening sometimes._

_My day was a little boring, too. Not much going on._

_Ian_

\------------------------ 

It takes Mickey an embarrassingly long time to come up with something to say, and it frustrates him to no end that his heart pounds so much at this stupid little interaction and that he tries so hard to keep the conversation going. 

Finally, he thinks he's got it. Good question. Solid conversation starter. Maybe a bit random, but whatever.

\------------------------ 

_Got any interesting clients with weird fetishes?_

\------------------------ 

It takes Ian long enough to respond that Mickey thinks he's lost the moment. But finally, after Mickey's gone and got himself a beer and is now sitting cross-legged on the couch, he gets a response.

\------------------------ 

_Nothing as extreme as the guy last month wanting me to role play as Twilight Sparkle from My Little Pony. And that ain't even the animal dude I referenced earlier._

\------------------------ 

_Did ya do it?_

\------------------------ 

_We had a long argument about whether, because Twilight Sparkle can verbalize her consent, Brony stuff violates my “no animals” rule. So long, in fact, that the guy lost interest. My job there was done._

\------------------------ 

_Win for you. Creepy ass people._

_So like, how does this thing work exactly? Like for you I mean._

\------------------------ 

_Probably what you'd expect. I sort of have a more advanced version of the app than you, with extra inboxes and features. If a client has been suggested for me, I screen their info, and if I accept, it opens up the line of communication. I'm basically just supposed to figure out what the client likes, and if it's nothing too weird, accommodate their likes as much as possible. After taxes, I take home like 30% of what the clients pay each week._

\------------------------ 

_So you're only getting $3 from me for this? You're gettin scammed man._

\------------------------ 

_Unless you want to tip me! ;)_

_But yeah, from you. We keep a pretty steady client base, though, and you kind of have the least popular subscription we offer._

\------------------------ 

_What's the most popular?_

\------------------------ 

_Gold Package. So like, phone and video stuff. I make about $20 a week per person, and it's actually a lot less work, since most clients just subscribe for the video chat feature and only want to do it a few times a month. I even have a couple clients I haven't heard from in weeks. But since it's a subscription, I get paid whether they use the service or not._

\------------------------ 

_Bet ya get a lot of old married dudes_

\------------------------ 

_Oh, almost exclusively. I'm always kind of surprised when I get a client under 50, to be honest._

\------------------------ 

_Desperate assholes_

\------------------------ 

_You know you're insulting yourself every time you say that, right? If I recall correctly, the original implication was that only desperate assholes use this app._

\------------------------ 

_Fuck off_

\------------------------ 

_I have a great memory, so be careful what you say to me, Mickey. Might come back to bite ya._

\------------------------ 

_Uh huh sure_

\------------------------ 

By the time they sign off for the night at just after 11, their email thread from today alone is 77 messages deep. And when Mickey finally climbs in bed, he keeps his phone with him so he can reread each and every one.

Nothing profound was said, and it was mostly a little awkward and circular. Mickey had asked more about Ian's job and had done his level best to be friendly and keep the conversation going, even when they'd run out of things to say. He wasn't an asshole, at least, and Ian was calm--a little guarded but with none of that formal shit--and overall, it had been fun.

He can't find a way to tip Ian, which he figures is the least he can do, since the guy spent the better part of five hours off-and-on emailing with him for about 43 cents in his pocket. But one thing he can do is upgrade his subscription.

If the Bronze Package was just the price of two visits to the Pinkberry stand, Silver's just a week of Sbarro.

He double-clicks the side button on his phone to submit his payment and settles down in his bed to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed! Thank you so much for reading, and please let me know what you think! I'm so excited about this, and I can't wait until the next chapter.
> 
> Some fun facts for Chapter 1:  
> -Mickey works in the same mall that he's assigned to for his parole job in season 10--just as a full mall security officer rather than only security for "Old Army." I can't find a good picture for reference, but I imagine him in a navy button-down uniform top tucked in to some khakis and brown boots. Then he's got a belt with a baton, handcuffs, walkie, and an ID badge attached. He also has a headset that he either wears or has around his neck.
> 
> -The kestrel packages and price points are as follows:
> 
>  **The Bronze Package:** Email with your match through the kestrel app -- $10.99 weekly  
>  **The Silver Package:** Instant message and exchange photos with your match through the kestrel app -- $25.99 weekly  
>  **The Gold Package:** Receive a direct phone number that can be used to call and video chat with your match OR use the kestrel app voice and video features -- $65.99 weekly  
>  **The Platinum Package:** Schedule in-person dates and meet-ups with your match -- $199.99 weekly baseline, plus extra fees for acts performed as ordered by the client through the scheduling service--each sexual act carrying its own additional fee
> 
> See you Saturday!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey _looks_. Mickey panics. Ian's got game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Mickey is dramatic, bites his lip, and says “fuck” a lot.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Chapter 2 includes embedded emojis, so hopefully they show up for you on your devices! There's not many, though, so it shouldn't be a big deal even if they don't; just know that 90% of them are middle fingers.

Though his subscription switches over from Bronze to Silver the moment the payment goes through on Thursday night, Mickey doesn't check out the new features until Saturday. He's painfully, acutely aware of them, sees the red dot on the now-unlocked instant messaging tab in the app, but the prospect of IMing with Ian gives him those stupid fucking Jell-O arms.

Emailing with him was alright, he thinks, because though Ian tended to reply pretty quickly, there wasn't the expectation of an immediate reply. Emails are for sharing chunks of information to be digested prior to response; instant messages, however, are for conversations.

But though Mickey doesn't immediately check out the new features that come with his upgrade, he continues to read back through his emails with Ian on the regular. He doesn't know why. It isn't like they're super interesting or funny or even objectively _good_ from a conversational standpoint. In fact, they're pretty goddamn awkward. But Mickey really had liked talking to Ian. It had made him feel good in a way things hadn't in a long time.

He would always get a cheap sense of happiness out of his Xbox, out of his weed and his guitar and his TV shows, but his emails with Ian introduce something new to the dynamic, even if that new thing is something he's paying for.

\---

He spends Saturday morning doing laundry and helping his landlady Mrs. Callaghan in her garden, earning his keep. She's a kooky old bat, but she likes Mickey in a way most people don't. She treats him like he actually has good qualities that outweigh all the bad. And that's such a novel concept to him that sometimes he doesn't really know what to say when she shows up at his door with banana pudding just because she knows he likes it.

He's sweating when he pushes into his apartment, and his shoulders ache a little from exertion. After wiping himself down and getting a beer from the fridge, he sprawls out on the couch with his phone. 

He has an email in his personal inbox from kestrel, reminding him that he has IMs waiting in the app. So, steeling himself, Mickey swipes it open and clicks over to the instant messaging tab. 

He has two messages from Ian: the first likely an automatic message sent out by the app, and the second a greeting from Friday night.

\------------------------

Thursday  
**Ian (11:28 PM):** Hi Mickey! Thanks for selecting the Silver Package. Using kestrel's instant messaging client, you and I can IM and share images in a simple, seamless fashion. Please note that though I will make every effort to respond to messages as quickly as possible, immediate responses cannot be guaranteed in all cases.

Friday  
**Ian (9:43 PM):** Hey. You upgraded!

\------------------------

Mickey clicks around inside the instant messenger tab, examining the new features. It's a pretty standard chat client, looking remarkably similar to iMessage with what appears to be left- and right-aligned message bubbles. At the bottom, beneath the text box, is a paperclip that can be clicked in order to send through image attachments from the user's photo app.

What sets it apart, though, is that users can select a profile image, which appears as a tiny circle beside their name. Mickey clicks on Ian's profile photo.

It doesn't enlarge to its full size but pops up to a circle large enough that Mickey can get a good look at the guy. 

It's a shoulders-up selfie with its high-saturation filter making it so the first thing Mickey sees is the _orange_ of Ian's hair, which is cut close at the sides and left longer on top, a couple strands escaping a backcomb to hang over his forehead. He's pale and freckly as fuck, and combined with his facial expression, looks like some kind of hot alien who knows exactly how good he can probe.

Ginger hair dusts his chest and peeks out over the top of his white tank top, and Mickey didn't know he had a thing for redheads until this exact moment. He pulls the corner of his lip into his mouth, bites down, and just _looks_.

 _Fuck_ , man.

And it's as he's _looking_ , just looking, that his phone vibrates with a message, startling him into a jump.

\------------------------

 **Ian (1:02 PM):** Hey hey hey.

\------------------------

Stupidly, Mickey's first reaction upon seeing Ian has messaged him is to do a frenzied, wide-eyed room scan as if paranoid about being caught _looking_. He's got the Jell-O arms again, and he shakes himself because _fuck_ , really?

Trying to snap out of it, Mickey clicks over to the message and immediately notices the green lightbulb beside Ian's name, indicating that he's available to chat. 

Assuming he has one of the same, he suddenly realizes that he _has_ sort of been caught. Looking.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (1:04 PM):** Sup 

**Ian (1:05 PM):** Saw you were online so I thought I'd check in. Thanks for upgrading, by the way. 👍

 **Mickey (1:05 PM):** Yeah no problem. I was gonna just tip ya to make up for the chump change you're gettin but don't know how

 **Ian (1:07 PM):** Oh yeah? Well, you're never obligated, but if you look on the main page of the app, there's a button that says “tip jar” in the top left corner. You can just put my name in there, and it'll add however much extra you select to your bill for the week. 

**Ian (1:07 PM):** I appreciate it.

 **Mickey (1:08 PM):** You get to keep your tips?

 **Ian (1:08 PM):** Yes, actually! They're added directly to my check at the end of the week.

 **Mickey (1:09 PM):** Cool  
\------------------------

Mickey bites that lip again, the corner of it between his teeth as he stares at the screen. Since Ian doesn't say anything for a while, he clicks back over to his profile photo for another look, trying to put the face to the text before his eyes, imagining this guy saying, “Hey hey hey.”

\------------------------

 **Ian (1:13 PM):** So, do you have any questions about the Silver Package? In addition to IMing, we can also exchange photos. And there's a profile you can edit if you click on the button in the top right of the chat window. You can add a picture of yourself if you're comfortable with it.

\------------------------

Fuck, _can_ Ian see Mickey looking? He swipes away from the photo and quickly moves to type a response.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (1:14 PM):** Nah I'm good

 **Ian (1:15 PM):** I've got one of me up, so feel free to check it out. And I can send you more pics if you're ever interested.

\------------------------

Mickey pops the top on his beer can and downs half of it at once. He belches loudly and wipes his mouth on his arm. Quirks his mouth, considering.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (1:19 PM):** I bet you burn like a motherfucker

 **Ian (1:21 PM):** 😑

 **Ian (1:21 PM):** Actually, not too bad if I'm careful. Mostly I just get really, really freckly.

 **Mickey (1:23 PM):** You're already really really freckly.

 **Ian (1:24 PM):** The freckles multiply exponentially. You ain't seen nothin'.

 **Ian (1:25 PM):** That picture was taken after winter fade, anyway. See me in July and I'm all freckle.

 **Mickey (1:25 PM):** I'll take your word for it

 **Ian (1:31 PM):** You don't have to. Check it.

\------------------------

Ian sends along an outdoors photo of him in a teal tank top, holding a beer. His hair's a little shorter and styled differently, and he's wearing sunglasses and smiling crookedly but like the sun shines out his ass.

The freckles across his face, shoulders, and chest are much more prominent and numerous, and Mickey _stares_.

He apparently stares for too awkwardly long because Ian seems to feel the need to message again.

\------------------------

 **Ian (1:35 PM):** So. You doing okay? Enjoying your Saturday? 

\------------------------

They make a few more minutes of stilted chatter, casually discussing their weekends in ways that two people do when they don't have much else to say, and then part ways. Mickey clicks around and finds out how to mark himself as “away,” but Ian's green light stays on.

Mickey stares at it, slurping away at the rest of his beer, and wonders how many other clients Ian has on instant messenger. He checks the timestamps of his messages and sees that they were all pretty consistent, seemingly indicating he wasn't messaging with anyone else at the time he was chatting with Mickey. But he figures Ian's probably skilled in the art of seamlessly managing multiple clients at once. He'd have to be.

And anyway, it's none of Mickey's business. For all he knows, Ian's probably strokin' it for some geriatric viagroid while telling Mickey about his freckles. He's a professional, after all.

He closes out the instant messenger portion of the app and spends a couple minutes on the main page, casually reading about some of the other packages and price points. As he's about to leave for good, he spies the tip jar button in the top left corner, right where Ian said it would be.

He does the math. Even with Mickey's upgrade to the Silver Package, Ian's only making a little over a dollar a day off him. 

Mickey clicks the button, tips Ian another ten bucks, and closes out the app. 

\---

Ian messages him again the following Monday while Mickey's on his lunch break.

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:02 PM):** Thanks for the tip!

**Mickey (12:03 PM):** Yep

\------------------------

Mickey sets his phone down on the table, app open, and flips through a copy of _Us Weekly_ he'd snatched from the security office, eyes jumping back and forth between the magazine and screen. 

\------------------------

 **Ian (12:08 PM):** Has anybody ever told you you're a brilliant conversationalist?

 **Mickey (12:09 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (12:10 PM):** (Sarcasm and attitude still okay? Or no? I sort of got mixed messages last week.)

 **Mickey (12:11 PM):** I think you should just do what you want

 **Ian (12:13 PM):** Hm.

 **Mickey (12:13 PM):** What

 **Ian (12:13 PM):** Just having a little trouble reading the room, here.

\------------------------

Mickey grabs and holds his phone in both hands. The corner of his mouth tilts upward—just a little—and he taps the edges of his phone case with his index fingers as he types with his thumbs.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (12:15 PM):** Sarcasm good, attitude good, you're welcome for the tip.

 **Ian (12:17 PM):** So did you just give me permission to tease you on the regular?

 **Ian (12:17 PM):** 'cause that's what I got out of that comma splice.

\------------------------

Mickey closes the magazine and hunches over, giving his phone his full attention. 

Stupid ginger smart-ass. 

\------------------------

 **Mickey (12:18 PM):** You policing my grammar now

 **Ian (12:18 PM):** Nah. Though your punctuation could use some work.

 **Ian (12:18 PM):** 😉

 **Mickey (12:18 PM):** Nerdy fucker

 **Ian (12:19 PM):** I did test out of 10th grade English.

 **Mickey (12:19 PM):** Congratulations, does that come in handy when you're gargling old man balls?

 **Ian (12:19 PM):** Mm hm! My oral skills are very advanced.

 **Ian (12:20 PM):** ...get it?

 **Mickey (12:21 PM):** Fuck off 

**Mickey (12:21 PM):** I gotta go

 **Ian (12:22 PM):** And I was just starting to have so much fun with you.

 **Mickey (12:22 PM):** 🖕

\------------------------

Mickey was supposed to be back at the security office by 12:20, but he guesses he's just gonna have to be late. He keeps his phone out as he walks through the mall, maybe rereading just a little, and if he pulls up Ian's profile again and looks one more time at his picture, well, it's only for a second.

\---

Ian doesn't message him again for the rest of the work week.

Mickey tries to keep busy after work, and as it's getting a little warmer, takes to going on walks. He puts in his earbuds and listens to Def Leppard, Bon Jovi, and Poison, and walks several blocks while chain-smoking.

Sometimes he'll take a right and head over to his old neighborhood, stop in at the Kash and Grab for a six pack, a bag of Doritos, or a blue Gatorade. 

He used to come in as a teenager and swipe shit out from under the noses of the owner and the stupid kid behind the counter. It feels like a lifetime ago—like a literal past life—and the flickering and buzzing of the overhead lights of the store makes Mickey feel a little homesick now, even though he'd hated every fucking minute of his life and wishes he'd burned it down sooner.

One of the owner's teenaged kids is at the register, and he sits on his little stool behind the counter and plays games on his phone.

It would be so easy for Mickey to swipe whatever he wanted, but he doesn't. He smacks his hand on the counter to get the kid's attention and asks him if he wants to fuckin' ring him up or not.

\---

Other days, Mickey will take a left and wander toward the corner store closer to his apartment. There's a run-down little park behind it—a stretch of patchy grass with a couple graffitied benches bolted into poured concrete, really—and sometimes he'll sit and smoke, will sneak a joint if he's got one.

There's a mangy ass looking [stray cat](https://i.ibb.co/K7Tftm5/jovi.jpg) that sits by him sometimes, flicking its tail and watching him with its cracked green eyes. It's black with a small patch of white at its neck, and one if its ears has a jagged chunk taken out of it like it's been bitten.

The third time he sees it, out by the dumpsters, he goes in to the corner store and buys a little bag of Party Mix treats. It eats a couple right out of his hand, and he gives it a pat on its head and a rub behind the ears for good measure.

Mickey doesn't know how good he is with animals, really, as he's never had one, but he likes the little guy alright. He's not a great conversationalist, either, but his purring's nice when Mickey's smoking and thinking. Like a motor or, more gently, like a butterfly fluttering in his ear.

\---

\---

He sleeps in on Sunday morning, and only wakes to a vibrating alert on his phone. It's Ian.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:12 AM):** Haven't heard from you in a bit. You good?

 **Mickey (10:13 AM):** I was until your fuckin message woke me up

 **Ian (10:13 AM):** Shit. Sorry. Go back to sleep!

\------------------------

Mickey yawns and twists in the covers, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:14 AM):** Nah man, too late

 **Ian (10:15 AM):** Sorry. I wasn't even paying attention to the time.

 **Mickey (10:15 AM):** Whatever

\------------------------

Mickey climbs out of bed with another yawn, grabs his phone, and goes to make coffee.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (10:17 AM):** You want something?

\------------------------

He doesn't mean to be grouchy, really. He's just tired, and he has the strangest sensation in his limbs of being woken from a dream he can't remember, like his brain's still trying to catch up with the reality of waking life after being occupied with something else.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:18 AM):** Just checking in, I guess.

 **Mickey (10:19 AM):** All good here, boy scout

\------------------------

After the coffee's ready, he pours a mug and drinks it while rereading the message exchange. 

Half-way through the mug, he thinks he could probably stand to be a little less of an ass.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:31 AM):** You doin alright?

 **Ian (10:31 AM):** Yeah, sorry. 

**Ian (10:33 AM):** I was just reading through Monday's exchange, and since I hadn't heard from you in a while, I sort of wondered if I'd pissed you off or overstepped. Like I said, I'm really not used to just being myself and messaging like this, so I'm not sure if I'm doing it right.

 **Mickey (10:35 AM):** Nah, it's cool. I've been busy and shit

 **Ian (10:36 AM):** Okay. Good to hear.

\------------------------

Weird motherfucker.

Mickey finishes his coffee and roots around in the cabinets for breakfast. He pulls out a package of strawberry Pop-Tarts and plugs in the toaster.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:41 AM):** I also wanted to say that you know you can message me, right? Like, I don't have to be the one to start the conversation. 

\------------------------ 

Yeah, he knows it, but it doesn't feel quite right. What would he even say? What would they talk about? 

He'd pulled out his phone more than once this week, opened the app and touched his thumbs to the screen, but he could never really justify sending Ian a message. The guy was making seven bucks a week off him, and he was probably trying to squeeze him in between sucking limp old dude dick and role playing as a doctor checking his patient for hemorrhoids.

At least with the clients paying for sex, Ian's getting something out of it other than circular conversations and the cost of an overpriced coffee.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:44 AM):** Yeah I know. Don't wanna bug ya. I'm sure you've got plenty of pervs to entertain

 **Ian (10:45 AM):** I've got clients, but you're one of them, even if we're just keeping things friendly for now. 

**Mickey (10:46 AM):** Fine, lesson learned. I'll message you next time I shit to let you know about it

 **Ian (10:46 AM):** 🤨 If that's what you're into.

\------------------------

So engrossed with his phone, Mickey jumps out of his skin when the toaster's done with the Pop-Tarts. He puts them on a paper plate, refills his coffee mug, and heads to the couch.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:49 AM):** What if I was?

 **Ian (10:49 AM):** Are you?

 **Mickey (10:50 AM):** Fuck no! But is that like something you do?

 **Ian (10:50 AM):** I mean, I haven't encountered that so far, but sure. Within reason.

 **Mickey (10:50 AM):** How exactly is pretending to be a fuckin horse worse than that

 **Ian (10:52 AM):** Well, horses can't consent to sex, and even if they could, the words I would have to use in order to describe what I'm doing to the client during sex would give me hives. And I said “within reason.” You can tell me about your shit, fine, but I don't necessarily want to do anything with it.

 **Mickey (10:52 AM):** Gross

 **Ian (10:54 AM):** So, you got any kinks up your sleeve?

\------------------------

Mickey almost chokes on his Pop-Tart. He takes a giant swallow of coffee and pounds at his chest.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:56 AM):** Fuck no, man. I already told ya about that shit

 **Ian (10:56 AM):** You said you like it pretty traditional. What's your favorite thing to do, then?

 **Mickey (10:57 AM):** I'm not talking about this with you

 **Ian (10:58 AM):** That's cool. Sorry. I wasn't actually trying to get sexual or start anything. Just making conversation.

 **Mickey (10:58 AM):** It's whatever. You talk too much

 **Ian (10:58 AM):** If I had a dollar...

\------------------------

Mickey finishes his Pop-Tarts and then swipes over to Ian's profile to look at his picture for a minute. Tapping his fingers against the side of his phone case, he shrugs and opens up the chat window again.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (11:02 AM):** Look, I'm just not used to talkin bout shit like that. Where I come from you don't like casually talk about gay sex shit without gettin your ass beat

 **Ian (11:04 AM):** No worries. I'm Southside, so I get it.

 **Mickey (11:04 AM):** No shit?

 **Ian (11:05 AM):** Yeah, Back of the Yards, born and raised.

\------------------------

Mickey has the strongest compulsion to ask for Ian's last name. In fact, he actually types out a couple words before deleting it all. He can't do that. Probably a violation of some kind of hooker code, and anyway, he's not even sure if Ian is his real first name.

He takes another sip of coffee, chews at his bottom lip for a minute, and decides to go with a less direct approach.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (11:08 AM):** Yeah, I know the neighborhood. Southside here too

 **Ian (11:09 AM):** Oh yeah? Well, we understand each other then.

 **Ian (11:12 AM):** Just, y'know, this is a safe space and all. For the future. If you ever want to talk about gay sex shit without getting your ass beat.

 **Mickey (11:13 AM):** Thanks Dr. Phil

\------------------------

Mickey tips Ian again after they've said goodbye, throwing in an extra fifteen dollars 'cause he knows the Southside kid hustle. This time, he types a message to go with it—just a “thanks”—and shrugs as he submits the payment.

Before he closes the app, though, he heads back over to Ian's profile picture and downloads it to his phone. He might as well, he thinks, pulling it up once it's in his photos. This, at least, gives him a chance to mess around with it a little.

He enlarges it and plays with the coloring so Ian's hair is less over-saturated orange and just a nice gingery red. The zoomed-in photo's a little grainy, but he likes it better than the full-sized sunglasses photo he has, as it shows off the green of his eyes.

Mickey really fucking hates that he does this. 

Biting his lip, he closes out of the photo app and, after then throwing on jeans and a jacket over his traditional boxers-tank-top combo, heads out for a walk. 

He doesn't think about it too hard as he makes a left, heading back into his old neighborhood. It's a nice day to be outside, and it's a longer walk to loop there and back than if he were to go in the opposite direction. 

Mickey puts in his earbuds and turns on [Led Zeppelin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tzVJPgCn-Z8) and smokes two cigarettes as he wanders. 

\---

He gets a message from Ian when he's standing in front of the Kash and Grab, thanking him for the tip. Mickey types back a “yeah yeah” and crushes his cigarette on the side of the building.

And he doesn't know why he didn't realize it before. In retrospect, it seems so fuckin' obvious.

But really, it's been like eight years and a truckload of hormones that grew the kid up and gave him some bulk. 

The stupid bangs are gone, and his jaw is more defined, but Mickey realizes as he's paying for a tallboy at the Kash and Grab that Ian's that starry-eyed little dumbass Gallagher kid he used to steal shit from on a weekly basis.

He _has_ to be.

Mickey didn't know his name back then, just the family he was from, since all the Milkoviches knew the Gallaghers. There were like thirty of them, and their dad was that piece of shit alcoholic who was always strung out or _passed_ out or owing somebody something and trying to weasel his way out of it. 

Mickey pulls up Ian's picture as he's standing on the curb, the rush of the L nearby loud in his ears. It's _gotta be_ fucking him. Chicago may be filled with Irish assholes, but Mickey doesn't know of another freckly-ass ginger around his age from Back of the Yards. At least not any that he could see as being gay. And he may not remember all the details of this kid's face, having spent most of his time in the store swiping candy bars and Pringles, but he can see it in Ian, maybe. The eyes. The shape of the nose.

He waits until he's back at the apartment to Google him, as he can't concentrate while walking.

Taking a few gulps of his beer and dropping down on the couch, he gets to work. 

He gets a couple address hits for 2119 South Wallace, as well as an article from an old PDF version of the high school newspaper about Ian making Cadet Lieutenant Colonel in JROTC.

Curious, Mickey opens the Facebook app. 

He doesn't actually participate in any forms of social media, but he has a blank Facebook and a blank Instagram he's used in the past to keep track of Mandy, who has a reputation for disappearing with guys for months at a time.

Once he's logged in, Mickey types Ian's name into the search bar and only has to do a bit of scrolling before he finds his page. 

Since Mickey doesn't have any friends with which to share mutuals, he can't really see much of his profile, which is pretty locked down; however, it's enough to confirm his identity as kestrel Ian. 

He's skinnier and somehow _paler_ in [his profile picture](https://i.ibb.co/zbs5hYL/ianfbpf.png), and his hair is long on top and floppy, hanging over his forehead like a 90s grunge model. But it's him. Ian fucking Gallagher.

Mickey doesn't _really_ know what to do with this information.

It's not like he can say anything to Ian about it without coming across as a total weirdo. So he closes out of Facebook, finishes his beer, and smokes a joint.

It's really quiet in his apartment, he thinks, lying back and blowing smoke into the air.

He pulls up kestrel on his phone and clicks over to the instant messenger tab. Ian's marked himself as unavailable.

Whatever. Not like he was gonna message him, anyway.

\---

Mickey's lying in bed that night when, on impulse, he grabs his phone and opens up Instagram.

His account's completely empty and locked down—set to private with no picture—and he only follows a handful of accounts: Mandy, a couple meme profiles, and his cousin Sandy, who's always posting pictures of girls smoking cigarettes and wearing flannel.

He types in Ian's name. 

There are a shit ton of Ian Gallaghers on Instagram, but kestrel Ian is only the seventh one down. And Mickey gets the fucking Jell-O arms again when he sees that Ian's profile is completely public, frequently updated, and contains about eighty posts dating back to 2017.

He would never admit to it even with a gun in his face, but he scrolls through every single picture and reads all of Ian's stupid ass captions and even some of his replies to comments. 

The man's fuckin' beautiful, and Mickey's done pretending otherwise. 

So he just looks and _looks_ from the dark of his bedroom.

Ian's most recent post is from earlier that day. He's wearing a blue shirt with a gray zip-up sweatshirt on top, and he's got a little red-headed girl perched on his knee. “Ginger Club” is the caption, and it has 24 likes and a handful of comments, mostly from other Gallaghers.

Mickey tries to zoom in—he _tries_ —touching his thumb and index finger to the picture, but as he's doing it, Instagram apparently registers a double-tap and turns the fucking like heart red.

Mickey's guts turn cold. As quickly as he possibly can, with his heart beating a mile a minute, he unlikes the photo. 

Jesus _fucking_ Christ. He's a _fucking_ idiot. Fucking weird-ass creep, basically stalking an escort he met on a sex app. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

Panicking, he goes to his own profile and makes sure everything's still locked down as tightly as possible. _Fuck_. He tries to breathe.

He gets out of bed, smokes for twenty minutes, and stares at the wall.

Okay. 

So, chances are, Ian probably won't even know. Mickey had the picture unliked again in less than ten seconds, and maybe Ian doesn't get notifications sent to his phone. Maybe Mickey's in the clear.

\---

\---

Ian knows.

Mickey wakes at a little after six on Monday morning to a vibrating alert.

Squinting at his phone, he sees it's a follow request from Ian. _Jesus fucking Christ._ His heart goes into his mouth.

Mickey goes over to Instagram and looks at his own profile again. He doesn't have his name up, but his fucking username is “mickm” followed by the last four digits of his phone number, so it'd be pretty obvious to anybody with half a brain.

He not only closes the Instagram app but logs all the way out of it. He hates himself.

\---

He can't concentrate at work. During his lunch break, he opens kestrel and turns off all push notifications to his phone and comes a hair's breadth from cancelling his subscription and deleting the app.

By the time his shift's over, he's stopped looking at his phone altogether, worried he'll somehow find himself on Instagram again.

It's not until he's hanging out with the cat on the park bench, working on his second cigarette, that he takes it out of his pocket.

He has an email from kestrel notifying him that he has two messages waiting from Ian. Fuck this. He re-pockets his phone and finishes his cigarette with his eyes closed.

\---

Mickey doesn't open kestrel again until Saturday, after he receives another email about what is now apparently _three_ waiting messages from Ian.

He's eating a nice, juicy, bloody steak when he swipes over, figuring he can bite the bullet and check it out, try not to die, cancel his subscription, and then go back to his dinner like this whole three-week nightmare never happened. 

\------------------------

Monday  
**Ian (7:13 PM):** How was work? Kept everything secure in that mysterious security career, I hope. I feel like you're a bodyguard. Are you a bodyguard?

 **Ian (7:14 PM):** Ah, shit. Forgot I was forcing you to start the next conversation. My bad.

Saturday  
**Ian (12:07 PM):** Hint, hint. You're supposed to start the next conversation.

\------------------------

Mickey sets down his fork and grasps his phone with both hands. He didn't say anything about the Instagram shit. _Why_ didn't he say anything? 

Does he not actually know it was him? Was the follow request just a fluke—just Ian adding anybody on his radar? Maybe Mickey appeared as a follow suggestion since he'd interacted with his profile?

But then what kind of freak tries to follow a completely blank account?

Mickey takes a sip of his beer and then bites his lip like he's wont to do whenever fucking Ian Gallagher so much as crosses his mind.

Does he just play it off like nothing happened? All three of these messages were sent after the incident, so maybe none of it so much as fazed Ian.

Mickey checks Ian's profile and sees he's online.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:19 PM):** Well here's me starting the next conversation

 **Ian (8:22 PM):** Damn. Proud of ya. 👏

 **Mickey (8:22 PM):** Fuck off 🖕

 **Ian (8:23 PM):** So what have you been up to? It's been a while.

\------------------------

Oh, panicking. Smoking. The usual.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:25 PM):** Busy week and didn't really have much to say.

 **Ian (8:25 PM):** Got it. 👍

 **Mickey (8:27 PM):** You doin ok

\------------------------

The “Got it” was weird, wasn't it? Cold, maybe? Mickey scrutinizes it for a bit, staring at the phone while scraping his top teeth back and forth over his bottom lip.

And Ian takes so incredibly long to reply to Mickey's question that Mickey turns off the phone screen and tries to go back to his dinner. 

The steak's gotten a little cold and chewy.

Almost a full ten minutes later, when Mickey's convinced he's gonna have to delete the app, a picture comes in. It's of Ian in a tight, black 8-ball t-shirt with paint all over it, smiling a closed-mouthed, “this is fine” smile. There's a smeared white handprint across his face and the front bit of his hair like someone's dipped their hand in paint and gone at him with it. 

Beneath the image, he's typed, “Sure am glad I don't have a job that requires me to be pretty.”

Mickey breathes.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:44 PM):** You piss off the wrong guy there?

 **Ian (8:44 PM):** Wrong brother, more like. I've been helping him paint his living room all day.

 **Mickey (8:45 PM):** Well look at it this way. There are worse colors to have all over your face in your line of work.

 **Ian (8:46 PM):** Man, that's filthy. I'm impressed.

 **Mickey (8:46 PM):** I'm sure ya got some guys that are into it

 **Ian (8:47 PM):** Who isn't?

\------------------------

Mickey has never blushed harder. He pushes his cold steak away, bites back a smile, and gets his elbows up on the table as he types with his thumbs.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:48 PM):** You asking?

 **Ian (8:48 PM):** Who 👏 the fuck 👏 isn't?

 **Mickey (8:49 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (8:51 PM):** That's what I thought.

\------------------------

Mickey presses his mouth into his forearm for a moment, holding _something_ back, something warm and happy. What a fuckin' punk.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:54 PM):** I got most of it out of my hair, but it's like caked into my eyebrows.

\------------------------

Ian sends a picture that he clearly just took of himself. It's at a terrible angle, and you can't really see anything but his nose, closed eyes, brows, and forehead. He took it with the flash on, so every single pore of his face is visible, every single fucking freckle illuminated, and Mickey stares at it for way too long.

He has freckles on his _eyelids_.

Initially, Mickey completely forgets about the brows, which do look pretty heinous, matted white paint clumping up the gingery hairs. 

He replies “fuck, man” and he does, he _does_ mean it in reaction to the eyebrows.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:57 PM):** Guess it could be worse, though. I'll just brush my hair down over my forehead or something until it comes out. I only have cam dates scheduled for next week, anyway, so it should be pretty easy to hide.

 **Mickey (8:58 PM):** Do your clients actually care about that shit? Like you couldn't just tell them the situation?

 **Ian (9:00 PM):** I mean, I could, but it would ruin the illusion. After the first few messages or emails, we're usually in fantasy mode.

 **Ian (9:01 PM):** Which is why I said a couple weeks ago that the dynamic I have with you is extremely unusual for me.

 **Mickey (9:03 PM):** So you never get guys that wanna date you for real or whatever?

 **Ian (9:07 PM):** I think I've mentioned the guys that want the boyfriend experience. I get one of those every now and again, but it's still a fantasy. I'm the perfect boyfriend who does whatever they want and is into whatever they're into; they're getting their emotional, romantic, or sexual needs met.

 **Ian (9:09 PM):** It's all a negotiation. Everything's role play, even if I'm role playing as Boyfriend Ian. That's why I was a bit perplexed when you didn't give me much to work with. There wasn't a fantasy to create because you didn't want one, so it's like, “What do I do?”

 **Mickey (9:12 PM):** How do I know you're being real with me? I assume you're pretty good at pretending.

 **Ian (9:14 PM):** Dude, I just sent you an ugly ass picture of my fucked up eyebrows. What kind of fantasy would that even be a part of?

 **Mickey (9:15 PM):** I dunno man

 **Ian (9:15 PM):** And I'd like to think I'd do a much better job of not pissing you off if I were trying to create a fantasy for you.

 **Mickey (9:16 PM):** Ok yeah, you are an annoying motherfucker

 **Ian (9:16 PM):** 🖕  
\------------------------

After their conversation that night, Ian starts sending Mickey photos on a regular basis.

They're mostly casual—ones he also puts up on Instagram along with similar captions. 

Not, _not_ that Mickey is still looking at his Instagram and not that he's still thinking about the stupid fucking follow request that no one has mentioned. 

Sometimes Ian's in the pictures, sometimes he isn't. Over the course of a couple weeks, Mickey receives, among others, a picture of Ian with his messed up eyebrows giving a “fuck my life” expression to the camera, a dog at the park wearing a sweater, and two consecutive mornings of his Air Force 1s: black low tops and red high tops.

Mickey doesn't always reply to them, and if he does, it's with a sarcastic comment or a wry joke. 

And it's not until a Saturday nearly a month into his use of kestrel when Mickey sends a photo back. He's at the park behind the corner store, and it's the first time the cat has climbed up onto his lap.

He's just sort of perched there, sharp, untrimmed claws digging into Mickey's thighs through his jeans and the pointed ridges of his spine sticking out prominently whenever he shifts. Mickey rubs at his ears and, on a whim, snaps a picture of him and sends it to Ian.

He sort of expects Ian to make a big deal out of the fact that he's just sent him a picture, but he doesn't.

\------------------------

 **Ian (3:59 PM):** And who is this?

 **Mickey (4:01 PM):** Dunno. He's a stray that hangs out behind the store I go to.

 **Ian (4:02 PM):** I assume you're showing me a picture of him because you're taking him home with you, right?

\------------------------

And fuck it, _sure_.

Mickey goes to Costco on Sunday and gets some food and a fuckin' carrier and a litter box with litter, and he brings that skinny ass, purring motherfucker home with him.

He names him Bon Jovi, and he really has no idea what to do with him. But the cat just wanders around, rubbing against everything in Mickey's apartment before finally curling up on his couch and going to sleep like he's lived there for years.

Mickey takes a picture of him, shrugs, and sends it to Ian.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (2:18 PM):** Bon Jovi

 **Ian (2:22 PM):** Y'know, I had you pegged for more of a Taylor Swift fan.

 **Mickey (2:23 PM):** Fuck you

 **Ian (2:23 PM):** I love him already. Congratulations on being a good person, Mickey. 👍

 **Ian (2:26 PM):** Now I have a bit of a demand for you, and that is that you're gonna have to send me a picture of him every day. Them's the rules.

 **Mickey (2:27 PM):** And what do I get out of it

 **Ian (2:28 PM):** His beautiful face in exchange for my beautiful face.

 **Mickey (2:30 PM):** Your beautiful face huh

 **Ian (2:31 PM):** That's what I said, bitch. 😎

 **Mickey (2:32 PM):** Cocky fucker

 **Ian (2:32 PM):** You know it.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Jovi doesn't do much. He eats like a trash can and lays all over Mickey, but that's pretty much it.

Still, he's nice company when it's quiet, his purrs filling the silence of the apartment. And as strange as it sounds, it makes Mickey feel good to have something to care for. He kinda likes the little guy, even, and after a week, finds himself looking forward to feeding him in the morning and hearing his chirps as he hops down from whatever surface he's been sleeping on and runs at full speed to his bowl.

He also likes sending pictures of him to Ian, who always acts like seeing that leggy gremlin is the best part of his day.

And well, Mickey _loves_ the pictures Ian sends back.

They're stupid, mostly—just Ian apparently stopping whatever he's doing and taking a shoulders-up selfie. Sometimes he makes faces, and sometimes he gives blank, murderous stares, and sometimes he just smiles, emphasizing that sharp, asymmetrical jaw and his white teeth.

Mickey usually sends back a middle finger emoji, but fuck if he doesn't anticipate seeing Ian's outfits—even if it's just from the shoulders up—and the varying degrees of stubble on his jaw depending on the time of day, and how his hair goes from perfectly backcombed to unruly.

He wonders what Ian thinks Mickey's getting out of it—if he thinks Mickey's into him or if he's just being an annoying fucker for fun. 

For someone who seems to say every fuckin' thing that ever comes to his mind, he's surprisingly difficult to crack, like a puzzle you should be able to figure out but can't, even when you flip it and come at it from a different angle, its game constantly changing to accommodate yours.

Mickey wonders all sorts of things about Ian, and between the effects of him and the cat, Mickey feels lighter, somehow—lighter than he has in years and maybe in his entire life. 

He feels a little late to the game, knowing this is probably what most people feel always, knowing this feeling is what keeps people going, what prevents the quiet from becoming unbearable.

Mickey Milkovich has a fuckin' _friend_ , and he thinks it's probably the best thing that's ever happened to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Some fun facts for Chapter 2:  
> -Ian's _hiiiighly_ suspicious of that weird blank Instagram account that liked his picture.
> 
> -Jovi looks something [like this](https://i.ibb.co/K7Tftm5/jovi.jpg), but he has a notched ear. Notched ears can either be done by a vet in order to indicate that a stray or feral cat has been spayed/neutered and then released back into the wild, or it can be due to an injury. Jovi's a lil neutered boy. Mickey was always going to name him Bon Jovi, but I originally toyed with the idea of him later on finding out the cat was a girl and calling her Bonnie. 
> 
> -In the Instagram post with Franny, Ian is dressed like he is in [10x08](https://youtu.be/Ho_Kcw6R9jQ).
> 
> -Ian's kestrel chat profile picture is inspired by how he looks in his [first scene of season 10](https://youtu.be/AgSa3o0-R10) because I think he looks unbearably 🔥🔥🔥. Especially with those errant strands that have escaped the backcomb.
> 
> -In Ian's paint photo, he's wearing the 8 ball shirt worn by both [Lip](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/27/63/88/276388340e106b00b0c84cd64c711416.jpg) and [Ian](https://images.spoilertv.com/cache/shameless/season-2/Promotional%20Episode%20Photos/Episode%202.08%20-%20Parenthood/shameless_208_1855_595.jpg) in the early seasons of the show. It's become one of the old, slightly tight t-shirts in the back of the drawer.
> 
> See you next week! I have all the time in the world right now, so I'll try to stick to a Wednesday and/or Saturday schedule, depending on the lengths of the chapters. I'm not sure yet, but the next one _might_ be a little shorter than my usual 6k+, so I might have it done earlier. We'll see. ❤️️
> 
> Also, I'm [gallavichy](http://gallavichy.tumblr.com) on Tumblr, and I have no friends yet. Feel free to come talk to me!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey panics again, but he's also brave. Ian finds some things out. Pictures are exchanged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Ian's pictures make Mickey weak.
> 
> Warnings for not-super-graphic masturbation and Mickey being way too fucking dramatic. Like, he needs to just chill for second.
> 
> So, this was originally planned out as chapters 3 and most of 4. I actually wrote about 2,000 additional words as part of chapter 3 and realized I absolutely hated where it was going. It was getting too angsty, and needlessly so, and I scrapped it and reworked the two chapters into one. I hope you enjoy!

Mickey's been using kestrel for six weeks and instant messaging with Ian for nearly five when he realizes that a shift has occurred in the way he feels about their interactions. 

When at first, he would obsess over and second-guess every single comment he made, would spend long minutes holding his phone, considering best responses and implications and wondering, “What if I message him right now?” before changing his mind, over and over again, now, he messages Ian without even thinking about it.

He doesn't always message him _first_ —in fact, he very rarely does so—but Mickey finds himself feeling stupidly proud of himself when he's having breakfast before work and has no problem messaging, without even a moment's hesitation, “Why are you so fuckin weird?” in response to Ian's Beautiful Face Exchange photo of the day.

It's a neck-up bathroom mirror selfie of him mid-shave, half his beard line covered in shaving foam in a way that's meant to be funny, but he just looks good as hell, especially with his sleepy eyes and pillow-mussed hair.

Micky'd thought the Jovi-pic-for-Ian-pic would last for a couple days at the most, but they'd somehow kept it going every single day. At this point, Mickey doesn't even know if it's still a joke or, more accurately, if it ever really was.

Mickey is _actively_ sexually attracted to him in a way he doesn't think he's ever been in his life—as in, he sometimes thinks about that one extra-dark freckle on his forehead sexually attracted—and as much as he thinks Ian talks too much, says too much, apparently doesn't keep even one thing to himself in the most annoying way possible, Mickey sort of can't get enough of him.

By the fifth week, their chats are less sporadic, three-or-four-times-a-week snatches of short conversations and more all-day mindless chatter, the two of them carrying on one conversation from sun-up to sun-down, sending just one or two messages an hour for most of the day.

And they don't even really _talk_ about a lot so much as make fun of each other in various ways because apparently they've settled into roles of Chattyass-Stupid-Puns-Ian and Grumbly-Middle-Finger-Emoji-Mickey. 

The only more sobering moment comes during week six, when Ian randomly messages Mickey with, “I know we have a playful teasing thing going, but please tell me if I'm ever actually getting on your nerves. I will definitely stop and/or rein it in a little.”

Mickey doesn't know why, but that gives him a weird twist in his guts, this professional-sounding request. It reminds him that, well, Mickey's kind of paying for Ian's friendship. Not kind of, but actually. Mickey's _paying_ for Ian's friendship, and as much as he'd like to think Ian's just _like this_ , this incorrigible, immediately likable spirit, he sometimes wonders.

Mickey replies with, “Whatever man,” and it's several hours before their banter gets back on track.

Moments like these are why it takes Mickey a ridiculously long time to do something he's been wanting to do since the third week they'd been IMing—since Ian had started sending him those stupid pictures of himself and Mickey had started spending so much time just _looking_ at him.

He'd thought about it so many times, but every time, he talked himself out of it, thinking it was just gonna open up a can of worms the size of the Sears Tower. Ian would have questions, and Mickey would have to answer them, and suddenly they'd be talking about things other than Ian's embarrassing dad jokes.

But it's a Tuesday, and Mickey's up at two in the morning because he can't sleep, and he has his Instagram open. Idly, he clicks to the heart at the bottom of the screen and sees that goddamn follow request from Ian. And in that moment, he suddenly thinks, “Fuck it,” and accepts it. 

What's the absolute worst that could possibly come of this? At least this way, he won't have to manually search for Ian's profile every time he wants to view his pictures, and he also won't have to be so obsessive about his fingers when he's on his page, constantly worrying about whether he's accidentally liking something as he scrolls.

After accepting the request, Mickey tries to do as much damage control as he can, searching for and following about twenty-five random accounts, from celebrities he doesn't hate to popular science and art accounts that he's not actually that interested in—anything to change his profile from completely blank and following four total people to something that looks at least passably less embarrassing.

He adds a profile picture, too, a hot one of Jon Bon Jovi from the _Slippery When Wet_ days, and finally ends his mad, two A.M. burst of likely poor decision making by officially following Ian.

It's done, he thinks, closing out the app and scrubbing his hands across his face.

He's done more than he can undo, and Ian probably has two shiny new Instagram notifications on his phone right now, waiting to be viewed.

Mickey tries to go back to bed, but he ends up punching his pillow into shape with just too much force to _not_ be borne of frustration. And fuck, it's just so goddamn quiet, and the cat's in the other room, and really, what was Mickey thinking? He is an _actual_ idiot. An actual stalker fucking idiot, and how is Ian _not_ going to be made supremely uncomfortable by all this? 

Ian has a _job_ , and Mickey's paying him money to talk to him, and Mickey just waltzed into his personal life like he has any business being there.

The guy's probably pretty guarded about his personal life because, well, he kinda has to be in order to stay sane and safe in his line of work, and all Mickey's done is tread on that safety. What a selfish, pathetic son of a bitch he is. A fucking twenty-six year old who's never sucked a dick, going after some hot, experienced younger guy--who literally gets paid to fuck--as if they have a normal relationship in which it's okay to connect with each other on social media.

Mickey is just so incredibly appalled at himself. And _embarrassed_. Fuck, he's embarrassed.

He moves to the couch and smokes four cigarettes, one after the other, and at some point, works himself into an anxious sleep.

\---

He's exhausted the next morning, and his mouth and teeth feel furry and stale from the late-night cigarettes. 

After a teeth brush, shower, and shave, he pulls on his work uniform and grabs his phone off the charger on his way to make coffee.

As he's putting in a new filter and dumping in the grounds, he idly glances down at his phone, which is lit up with notification reminders. And fuck, he has an Instagram direct message notification from 4:18 that morning.

He clicks to open it and bites his lip so hard he nearly breaks the skin.

\------------------------

 **insta_iang**  
Knew it, bitch. 😏

\------------------------

And just _everything_ about this is a mess. 

Mickey can't reply, can he, because then he'd be admitting to being a desperate-ass stalker, like some thirteen-year-old with a crush. Not replying at all, on the other hand, might just be even weirder because then it's like some silent serial killer shit.

So of course, the only thing Mickey can do is turn off all message notifications on his phone for the third time in the past month and try to forget all about it.

\---

He does a really terrible job of that, mainly because he opens the Instagram app no less than five times while he's at work alone. And to make matters worse, Ian has _tagged him_ in his most recent post for what Mickey can determine is for no discernible reason.

It's from this morning, and it's Ian, standing with the sun head-on, golden and bright in his face like it's on its way up. It's beautiful as hell, and his hair is like fire and eyes are this blown-out, flashbulb green from the direct sunlight, and the caption reads, “Getting no sleep isn't so bad when mornings are like this.” There are two more pictures in the post—both of the sunrise—and Mickey's tagged in the last one.

Mickey doesn't comment, and he doesn't like it, and he actually goes three days without talking to Ian at all because there is just something so uncomfortable about the entire situation he's just walked himself into completely and utterly voluntarily.

\---

He finally checks his kestrel messages on Saturday. It's after breakfast, and he's stretched out on the couch in an old t-shirt and boxers. Jovi's sitting on him, kneading his belly and purring like a motor.

\------------------------

Wednesday  
**Ian (4:15 PM):** Guess who just now woke up?

 **Ian (4:27 PM):** ...this guy.

Thursday  
**Ian (10:51 PM):** How's it going?

Friday  
**Ian (1:01 AM):** Hm.

\------------------------

Friday night, he had sent Mickey a screenshot of the sunrise Instagram post and asked, “Did you see this?”

And Mickey is tapping his fingers against the sides of his phone, considering his approach, when another message comes in.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:12 AM):** MICKEY.

 **Mickey (10:13 AM):** Jesus Christ, calm down. What?

 **Ian (10:13 AM):** Just wondering if you'd died and all.

 **Mickey (10:14 AM):** Can't a guy be fuckin busy

 **Ian (10:14 AM):** Sure. 👍

\------------------------

Mickey runs a hand through his hair and sighs. This is not going how he wants it to go, but well, he's not sure how he wants it to go, exactly.

No one messages for several minutes. Jovi crawls up Mickey's belly and lays down on his chest in a little curl, and Mickey reaches a hand down to rub at his ears.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:22 AM):** Hey. Are you “mickm7189” on Instagram?

\------------------------

There it is.

Mickey blows out a heavy breath into the air above him.

This is his last chance to deny it if he's going to.

But well, like Ian's going to believe it _isn't_ him. Ian knows it's him. He's just asking because he wants to talk about it because Mickey's being a huge pussy about the whole thing. Mickey _knows_ he's being a huge pussy about the whole thing.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:26 AM):** Yeah.

 **Ian (10:27 AM):** Got it.

 **Ian (10:28 AM):** Just wondering, 'cause you haven't commented or liked anything. Did you get my DM?

 **Mickey (10:28 AM):** Yeah I got it.

 **Ian (10:29 AM):** ...cool. 🤨

\------------------------

It's awkward as fuck, and this is one of the many situations in Mickey's life that he can look at and objectively know that it doesn't have to be the way that it is. Ian seems completely fine with the Instagram thing, if a little curious about Mickey's involvement with it, and Mickey could _easily_ be fine with it, too. But just because he knows the conversation doesn't have to go down as awkwardly as it does doesn't mean he's going to do anything about it.

He sucks at his teeth and Jovi seems to take that as a cue to snuggle closer. He shuffles up under Mickey's chin and purrs.

Ian messages him again later on in the day with what Mickey knows is an ice breaking, “Where's Jovi?” and Mickey sends him a picture of the cat clutching a mouse toy in his claws. 

A few minutes later, Ian sends a selfie of him with his head tilted back, drinking from a beer bottle with his eyebrows raised. “You're driving me to drink,” he says beneath it, and Mickey thinks that's about as close to an acknowledgement of Mickey's confusing awkwardness as they're going to get for now.

\---

See, the thing is, Mickey _likes_ Ian, and he is _actively sexually attracted_ to Ian. And he is living with the understanding, as he sticks his hand down his boxers and pulls up his favorite porn site, that he could one hundred percent _fuck_ Ian.

Literally all he would have to do is pay a couple hundred dollars to temporarily upgrade his subscription, then schedule it. And if he doesn't want to go that far, he can pay the equivalent of a week of good quality groceries to have video sex with him.

This is Ian's _job_. Fucking is his _job_ , and Mickey is one of his clients on a sex app.

They could have sex.

But as Mickey leans back, right hand slowly, slowly stroking at himself as he watches a hot redhead bend a little brunet twink over the back of a couch, he can't help but feel _embarrassed_.

The _sex_ doesn't embarrass him. Sex is whatever. Mickey's not a child. He's fucked before.

But he's just never done it with a _guy_. He's never done it with anyone he's _actively sexually attracted_ to, and he's certainly never done it with anyone he kind of likes. And while those are obviously the exact conditions in which Mickey would _hope_ to have sex at some point in his life, the closer he gets, the more involved he gets, the more nervous he becomes.

Because he sort of doesn't know what to _do_. What would he even _do_ with Ian?

He's never gone through that teenage exploration phase with a guy where you try a little bit of everything and ultimately learn how to please someone and how to please yourself, what you like and what you don't, how to start and how to end.

So while he _obviously_ knows how to have sex with a man, he knows that at the very least he will be a nervous, fumbling mess the first time, and it will be made even worse since he _likes the guy_. Since the guy is someone he kinda likes to talk to. Someone he doesn't necessarily want to fuck and run from. Someone who's his fucking _friend_.

And that's at the heart of why he's weird about the Instagram thing, he thinks. On Instagram, it isn't Ian the Escort and Mickey the Client; it's Ian Gallagher, a real person, and Mickey Milkovich, a real person. It's a little too _real_. It's _close_. It's “we're going to meet one day, and we're going to fuck.” 

But it's also more than that because it's, “I want to know everything about you, and I just want to _look_ at you, and really, I'm just a little bit obsessed with you.”

So Mickey accepted his follow request because he _wants_ that, but then he panicked because he's _afraid_ of that, and now he's watching porn _thinking_ about that, and he's frustrated as hell.

And he knows he's probably wearing on Ian's patience. Ian ain't gettin' paid enough for this fickle bitch shit, and in _theory_ , Mickey would kinda like to stop being so goddamn confusing all the time. But it's not like he can just _explain_ it to Ian.

“I wanna get fucked—by you, specifically—so I do shit impulsively, and then I immediately regret it because I'm a fuckin' twenty-six-year-old virgin, sort of, at least with guys, and I don't really know what I'm doing, and I'm mortified and hate myself so I pull back until I can't stand it anymore” doesn't quite have the ring to it that he wants.

And he _wants_ to just say, “I don't know what I want,” because that sums it up, really, but he tried that when they first started emailing and that got him nowhere but frustrated and made Ian pissed at him.

So unsurprisingly, he decides to do nothing. He ignores it, like always, like he's always ignoring everything in his life, and he goes on.

It takes them a few days for their messaging to get back to some semblance of normal. Ian seems a little more reserved than usual, seemingly waiting for Mickey to make all the moves to communicate, and he doesn't once mention Instagram again, nor does he tag or DM Mickey.

\---

Mickey sends him a picture of Jovi on Wednesday without being prompted, sort of like his own ice breaker move, something to warm the weird chill that's dusted their conversations as of late. 

The little dude's stretched out flat on his back and flicking his tail from side to side, seemingly daring Mickey to reach for his belly. He does, of course, because he can't _not_ , even though he knows he's getting bitten, and he takes the opportunity to snap a picture just as Jovi grabs at his hand with his claws and bites at his middle finger.

When he sends it to Ian, he's expecting back a traditional selfie. Since it's late, he's hoping for his sleepy face, if he's honest. Maybe his evening-messy hair.

But Ian doesn't send back a picture with his message, at all.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:24 PM):** Is that a hand I see?

 **Ian (10:25 PM):** A real, human Mickey hand?

 **Mickey (10:27 PM):** What are you talking about

 **Ian (10:28 PM):** Y'know, this is actually the first time I've seen any part of you.

 **Ian (10:28 PM):** And what's with the “FUCK” tattoos?

\------------------------

Mickey hadn't thought of that, really. He shrugs.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:30 PM):** Other hand says U-UP

 **Ian (10:31 PM):** Mm, so you are Southside.

 **Mickey (10:32 PM):** You doubted?

 **Ian (10:32 PM):** No, just... I dunno. 😏

 **Mickey (10:33 PM):** What's that face for

 **Ian (10:33 PM):** I was just sort of expecting to meet up with you one day and have you be like, former altar boy, sweet, well-meaning nerd pretending to be a badass online.

 **Mickey (10:34 PM):** What

\------------------------

He's a little breathless, but probably not at what Ian thinks.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:35 PM):** Mickey, we've been messaging for well over a month, and I've sent more pictures of myself to you than probably anyone else in my entire life. But I have absolutely no idea what you look like.

 **Ian (10:35 PM):** Aside from “black hair, blue eyes, okay shape,” which could literally be anyone.

 **Ian (10:36 PM):** And it's cool, by the way. You don't ever have to send me a picture. I'm just talking. 

\------------------------

Mickey doesn't really register Ian's last few messages because all he can think about is the fact that Ian is fully expecting to meet up with him one day.

To fuck, probably.

And, well, Mickey _knew_ that. He _knew_ that, obviously, as from the beginning, they've been carrying on these conversations with no sexual expectations “for now” and “yet.” But just to read it thrown out so casually—that they're probably gonna meet up one day, Ian is probably gonna be the first guy to put his dick in Mickey's ass, and Ian sort of _knows that_ , even if he doesn't know _all of it_ —makes Mickey blush like a motherfucker. 

He presses his head back into the couch and squeezes his eyes shut for a second.

Ian must think he's made Mickey uncomfortable, and he has, he fucking _has_ , just not with the talk about seeing pictures of him, because after several minutes of silence, he changes the subject.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:44 PM):** So. Tell me about your tattoos?

\------------------------

Mickey looks down at his knuckles. Rubs his thumbs over the letters that have been there since he was sixteen years old and wanting nothing more than to please his son of a bitch father.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:49 PM):** Family thing I guess.

 **Mickey (10:50 PM):** Brothers got em, dad did.

\------------------------

And it comes across as so much more simple than it actually is that it makes Mickey laugh, this frustrated grunt of a laugh. He swipes his hand over his face.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:52 PM):** Oh yeah? Do they all say “FUCK U-UP?”

 **Mickey (10:53 PM):** Nah, brothers got BEAR DOWN and BEAT DOWN. Dad's was ASSS HOLE which was real fuckin appropriate.

 **Ian (10:55 PM):** Gotcha.

\------------------------ 

Ian's quiet about it, leaving that “Gotcha” as it is. And Mickey knows in that moment that he _does_ get him, at least about this.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:58 PM):** So what about you Freckles?

 **Ian (10:58 PM):** 😑 Did you just call me Freckles?

 **Mickey (10:59 PM):** Shut up and answer the question

 **Ian (11:01 PM):** 🤨

 **Ian (11:02 PM):** So, I have two. But you're not allowed to say anything.

 **Ian (11:02 PM):** And you can't make fun of me.

 **Mickey (11:03 PM):** No fuckin promises

 **Ian (11:04 PM):** 🙄 They're both kind of long stories. 

**Ian (11:04 PM):** The first is on my side, and it's a bald eagle holding a machine gun.

 **Ian (11:05 PM):** And the second is this like massive pair of titties on my back right shoulder.

 **Mickey (11:05 PM):** What

 **Ian (11:06 PM):** The eagle's a military thing. Was kinda obsessed as a teenager with enlisting. Wanted to go to West Point and all to become an officer. It's a long story. The second was supposed to be a tribute to my mom but the tattoo artist fucked up, so.

 **Mickey (11:08 PM):** That's some fuck up! Jesus Christ

 **Ian (11:09 PM):** You wanna see them? I haven't sent you my beautiful face yet.

\------------------------ 

Several minutes later, two pictures come in that give Mickey a hot, full-body blush from his thighs up to his temples.

These are the first shirtless photos Ian's sent him, and Mickey's got them saved to his phone before he even takes a moment to look at them properly, as if he's afraid they'll disappear before he gets a chance to do it later.

They're both bathroom mirror shots. In the first, Ian's standing, shirtless, at an angle, showing off that stupid bald eagle tattoo. Just the top few inches of a pair of blue checkered boxers are visible at the bottom of the mirror, and Mickey _stares_ and stares at the definition of his abs above them and the light dusting of ginger hair trailing down from his navel and disappearing below.

And it's not only _that_ that makes Mickey like this picture so much. Mostly it's Ian's face, which is completely unguarded, completely unschooled, just watching the screen of his phone as he takes the picture. 

His hair's starting to fall out of place, a hunk of strands bending over his temple, and he has finger-rake marks on top where he's clearly pushed it back before taking the picture.

And his _freckles_. All over his shoulders, like goddamn constellations. 

The second is taken from behind, and it's cropped a bit so that mostly just the tattoo is visible—that ridiculous tattoo. But Mickey can see the hairs at the nape of Ian's neck and the all-over pinpricks of his freckles and how his skin's pale and perfect but also a little healthily pink and splotchy here and there.

Mickey wants to say a lot of things. He wants to say that Ian is beautiful, and he wants to say that he's going to jerk off to that first picture tonight like the world's ending.

“What the fuck, man” is what he says, biting the hell out of his bottom lip.

\------------------------

 **Ian (11:17 PM):** Nobody really seems to care about the eagle, but that shoulder tattoo's a bitch to explain to people I fuck.

 **Mickey (11:18 PM):** You tell your clients that shit?

 **Ian (11:19 PM):** Not usually? I mean, depending on what they request, they may or may not need to see it, anyway.

\------------------------

Mickey feels stupid because _obviously_ Ian's fucking other people. It didn't even occur to Mickey that he fucked on his own time. Hell, he might even have a fuckin' _boyfriend_ , and _that_ thought pisses Mickey off more than he thinks it should. More than he thinks it has a right to.

\------------------------

 **Ian (11:23 PM):** So what'd you think of the pictures? 

**Mickey (11:24 PM):** Fuck you. You mean what'd I think of your body?

 **Ian (11:24 PM):** Yep. 😎

 **Mickey (11:25 PM):** Dunno man. What am I supposed to say?

 **Ian (11:25 PM):** 😏

 **Mickey (11:26 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (11:26 PM):** Do you want more? Like for the future, are shirtless pictures something you're interested in?

\------------------------ 

Mickey has a feeling Ian _knows_ the answer to that question. In fact, Mickey has a feeling Ian knows a fuckton of answers to questions he hasn't even asked yet.

Mickey has a feeling Ian knows that Mickey's gonna jerk it to his chest hair and his nipples and the stupid, beautiful goddamn freckles on his shoulders as soon as they say goodnight.

So Mickey writes, “Yeah,” and leaves it at that, and Ian sends back a winking emoji.

\---

He stays up until nearly two, mostly looking at Ian's pictures and masturbating until his dick hurts. 

Mickey spent most of his teen years jerking off to hot guys in gun magazines like they were goddamn Magic Mike dancers. But once he was on his own and had access to video porn and like, visuals of actual naked dudes having sex, pictures didn't really do it for him anymore.

But fuck if Mickey doesn't go off like a firecracker over Ian.

The first time he does it, he comes so hard he kicks his bedroom wall and scares Jovi into a full on bat-outta-hell dash out of the room. 

The second time he does it, he's on his knees with the phone on his pillow, and nearing the end, he just leans over and drools all over his comforter as he shakes out an orgasm that makes his thighs wobble.

By the third round, there ain't much left for him to give, his orgasm mostly a quick buildup followed by a sweaty, four-second tingle and his come nothing but a weak couple of drips into his palm.

Sighing, he stretches out onto his back, scratches over his belly, and is only vaguely ashamed about how _filthy_ he is—all flushed and red with funky-smelling armpits and jizz drying in his pubes.

 _Fuck you, Gallagher_ , he thinks, closing his eyes and smiling.

\---

After that night, Ian sends Mickey shirtless pictures a few times a week.

And while he wouldn't _mind_ or refuse shirtless photos of a more blatantly sexual nature, Mickey sincerely appreciates that Ian is respecting the hell out of his initially-set-forth boundaries. The pictures are sexy as fuck, but not because Ian's deliberately trying to make them that way.

On Saturday, he sends a mirror photo of him after going on a run, his hair disheveled and curling at the edges with sweat and his underwear peeking out the top of his running shorts.

On Tuesday, it's another shaving picture, but this time it's post-shower and he's showing his chest and his peaked pink nipples. His hair's wet and freshly combed back, and he's smirking into the camera like he's looking right at Mickey.

On Thursday, he sends the hottest one of all—the one Mickey spends a fantastic six minutes with immediately after receiving it that night. It's clearly a morning picture, taken earlier in the day, and Ian looks sleepy and stubbly, his hair a mess. 

It doesn't show that much, really, and in fact, it shows much less than the other two, but Mickey doesn't care. He looks warm and sleep-sweaty, and his nipples are soft.

Mickey _is_ a little ashamed after this one because he gets come all over his phone screen from _maybe_ rubbing his dick against it a little at the end. But that had been when his brain had already shut off, so he doesn't think about it too hard.

\---

Mickey and Ian have been messaging for two months when Mickey starts _thinking_.

What's the worst that could happen?

Assuming they're gonna meet up at some point anyway, and assuming Ian's gonna one day have his dick inside him, Mickey figures he might as well give him a little _something_.

He mostly starts thinking this when he's flipping through pictures on his phone that he'd taken in the past week. 

Jovi has this thing where he's started perching on Mickey's shoulder whenever Mickey's sitting on the middle couch cushion. He just hops up on the couch back and settles the front half of his body on Mickey's shoulder. 

He'll sit there for an hour, sometimes, if Mickey isn't moving around much, and well, Mickey thought it was kinda funny—or at least unique—enough to warrant a photo.

So he'd taken a couple selfies, and one of them—where he's facing the camera but has his eyes turned toward the cat, who's staring back at him—is actually really, really decent. Decent enough to post, maybe.

Decent enough to post to Instagram?

Mickey quirks his mouth as he considers. Sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and bites down.

What the fuck ever.

He opens up Instagram, uploads the photo with the Lark filter, and posts it. He doesn't leave a caption, and he doesn't tag anybody, and really, he doesn't even look at it again because he quickly closes out of the app and puts his phone on the charger.

\---

Mickey's already tired when he looks at his phone the next morning and sees he has four push notifications from Instagram and three texts.

Squinting, he opens up the app and sees three things: one, that Ian has liked his photo; two, that Ian has commented on his photo; and three, that Ian and Mandy are apparently having a fuckin' conversation in the comments.

\------------------------

 **insta_iang:** Wait. Mickey. Am I seeing your FACE? Can it be?

 **mandy_milk0vich:** do you have a cat?

**insta_iang:** Mandy?

**mandy_milk0vich:** ian, holy shit!!

**insta_iang:** It's been forever! Shit. How are you doing?

\------------------------ 

And on and on. The two of them have left a collective twelve comments to each other.

There's more to unpack, too, as Mickey has a direct message from Ian and texts from Mandy, and when he opens up Mandy's profile he sees that Ian's following her now.

And it's just a lot for a morning.

Mickey climbs out of bed, puts his phone back on the charger, and doesn't check it again until he's showered, dressed for work, and sipping his coffee.

First, there are the texts.

\------------------------

 **Mandy:** how do you know ian gallagher?

 **Mandy:** and why is he your only other instagram follower besides me and sandy?

 **Mandy:** are you fucking?

\------------------------ 

Mickey takes a deep breath through his nose.

\------------------------

 **Mickey:** Nah, just talked to him recently. It's not like a big deal or anything.

 **Mickey:** How do you know him?

 **Mandy:** ha! oookay. 

\------------------------ 

Mandy tells him about that perv Mr. Bancroft in 10th grade and how they'd hung out a little after that, how he'd come out to her after she'd tried to fuck him, and really, he and Ian have apparently been circling each other for years.

And it all makes sense, doesn't it?

Mickey checks his direct message from Ian next.

\------------------------

 **insta_iang**  
So you're Mandy's brother? I can't believe I didn't realize that you're fucking Mickey Milkovich. Of course you are! 

\------------------------

And though he thinks about not, Mickey can't really come up with a good reason not to respond this time. I mean, the cat's out of bag. The can of worms is open.

“Small world, I guess,” he sends in response.

Ian doesn't reply until nearing the end of Mickey's shift.

\------------------------

 **insta_iang**  
I was wondering how the hell you found my insta. Have you known who I was the whole time?

 **mickm7189**  
One of your pictures just kinda looked familiar. We didn't really like know each other or anything back then but I remembered you were one of the Gallaghers

 **insta_iang**  
Well, it would've been nice to know.

 **mickm7189**  
Yeah 

**insta_iang**  
It's cool, though. I get it. Probably would have done the same thing. I sort of remember you. You used to come into the Kash and Grab? 

**insta_iang**  
I can't believe I didn't think about it before because it's not like Mickey's a common name. But wow. Okay. Mandy's brother. Mickey Milkovich.

 **mickm7189**  
Ian Gallagher

\------------------------

Could have gone better. Could have gone worse.

Mickey finishes out the rest of his shift and goes home.

\---

He's expecting things to change at this point because things are different now, aren't they? The can has been opened and now they know each other's last names, families, and hell, their fuckin' _childhood homes_ if Ian had apparently been over to their house a couple times like Mandy said.

Out of all the people in Chicago Mickey could match up with. Out of all the people Mickey could be _sexually attracted to_. Out of all the people that could potentially fuck him for the first time, eventually.

The fuckin' freckle-faced ginger Gallagher kid with the stupid bangs. 

Ian says he "sort of" remembers him. He hopes he doesn't remember the dirty, angry kid with the chip on his shoulder.

Would they have liked each other if they'd known one another's secret?

\---

Mickey's expecting things to change, and they do, but not in ways he thinks they will. They change in that Ian's a little more revealing, maybe, a little less guarded. A little more himself.

He sends Mickey a shirtless picture on Friday. He's _smoking_ in this one, which is something he hasn't talked about at all before, and he's fully dressed from the waist down as if he's just done everything but put on his shirt for the day.

“Morning, Milkovich,” he's typed beneath it.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (7:12 AM):** Am I allowed to know you smoke now?

 **Ian (7:12 AM):** Yep. That's privileged information, too.

 **Ian (7:13 AM):** And actually, now that I can let my guard down a little, I'm gonna be smoking in every single picture I ever send you from here on out. Like, just packs and packs of cigarettes. Constantly.

 **Mickey (7:14 AM):** Who said you can let your guard down now?

 **Ian (7:14 AM):** Me, bitch. I'm fairly certain you know what I looked like in my awkward stage. There's no going back from that.

\------------------------

And Mickey just feels so _light_ all of a sudden. This man, this beautiful man knows who he is, knows of his fucked up family, knows his _sister_ and yet not only isn't backing away but is actually pushing _forward_.

Mickey feels light, and Mickey feels _brave_.

That night, when Ian messages about Jovi, Mickey doesn't even stress, and he doesn't even hesitate.

He sends a picture he'd taken the morning before in bed. Jovi's stretched out horizontally across Mickey's neck like a weasel, completely limp and long and boneless-looking in his sleep.

It isn't a full face shot of Mickey, but it's his chest above the neck of his tank-top and his throat, chin, mouth, and nose, and he's in bed and he's stubbly and it's _morning_ , and well, Mickey feels like he's _doing something_ when he sends it.

And he appreciates it when Ian doesn't make a big deal of it. He so rarely does, and it's stupidly comforting, honestly, that he's letting Mickey just _be_ and isn't pushing him to do shit he might not wanna do yet.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:11 PM):** How bad would it be if I said you were apparently a pussy magnet?

 **Mickey (10:11 PM):** Pretty fuckin bad 🖕

 **Ian (10:12 PM):** Okay, so I won't. But just know that I'm thinking it.

 **Mickey (10:13 PM):** I don't even know why I talk to you

 **Ian (10:14 PM):** Yeah, ya do. 😎

\------------------------

Yeah, he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fun facts for Chapter 3:  
> - _Realistically_ , Ian probably would have looked at the list of who Mickey was following on Instagram prior to the Mandy situation, therefore finding out about her much sooner. I know I would have, at least. But let's just say he didn't. Suspend that disbelief.
> 
> -In this story, Ian and Mandy weren't as close as in canon. They studied together a bit, Mandy tried to have sex with him, but instead of her lying to her brothers about Ian trying to rape her, he just told her he was gay and that was the end of it. As a kid, he knew about Mickey in the way you would know about the older brother of a kid in your class. Also, I want to add that there were never any confrontations with Ian at the Kash and Grab. Mickey stole his shit perhaps in a less obvious way than in canon, so aside from seeing each other in the store, they were never really on each other's radar. But they'll talk about this later.
> 
> -I don't actually know exactly what all the Milkovich knuckle tats say. I know there's the picture the actor who plays Iggy posted where it looks like he or someone else has modified BEAT DOWN to BEAR DOWN in support of his alma mater, but I don't know if that's a thing or if it was just for the picture. So, I just went with both. Colin's knuckle tats do begin with BEA, as seen in the hot-hands scene with Iggy, but I could never see the rest. If anybody knows, please enlighten me.
> 
> See you _maybe_ Saturday. It depends on whether I can get the next chapter finished. Thank you for reading! You guys are awesome, and I'm so appreciative of every read, kudos, and comment.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr @ [gallavichy](http://gallavichy.tumblr.com).


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steps are taken. Mickey learns more about Ian. Phone calls are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which conversations are had and _Mickey's got it bad_.
> 
> Warning for some brief, slightly graphic descriptions of the aftermath of a car crash (not involving any main characters).
> 
> This chapter's a bit of a beast and there's a lot of talking happening in ways that will set up more conversations to come. I overwrote the hell out of this and absolutely could have cut about a thousand words of conversations that aren't that significant, plot-wise. But! I had so much fun writing them, and I just love these boys talking to each other so much, so hopefully you'll enjoy reading them even in their excess. Consider this an extended director's cut from the get-go. Oh! And I've added hover-text to the emojis this time, so if for some reason you get a box where an emoji would be, just mouse over it for a description.

After nearly two months and two weeks of chatting with Ian, Mickey sends his first full-face photo not disguised as a picture of his cat.

Ian, jokingly keeping relatively true to his word about smoking in all of his pictures, sends a beautiful outdoors photo of him blowing smoke into the air. 

It's a side shot, and Ian's got his head tilted back and his eyes closed, and his lips are pursed and parted in a way that makes Mickey suck the corner of his own lip into his mouth.

“Do you smoke? 🚬" Ian sends with the photo.

Mickey's smoking now, in fact, and after only a minute of pondering, followed by another minute of second-guessing himself, he takes a selfie. He tries to make it look as casual and unposed as possible, just him staring, expressionless, straight into the camera lens, cigarette dangling from his lips at an angle.

It's a little dark, the room lights dim, but it's fine. It's _decent_. Mickey sends it and takes a long, hard drag.

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:11 PM):** Well don't you look cool as fuck. 😎

\------------------------

Mickey rolls his eyes at that, cheeks heating in spite of himself. 

But Ian's stupid little comment does give him the confidence it takes to send along more pictures of himself over the next couple of weeks. He doesn't do it frequently—usually just in response to a photo of Ian's—but he reaches a point where it's a Friday night and he's working his way through a six pack, and instead of sending the middle finger emoji in response to one of Ian's annoying comments, he takes a picture of himself flipping off the camera.

Ian quickly responds with one of his own, prompting Mickey, not to be outdone, to put his phone camera on a timer and take one of him flipping off Ian with _both_ hands. And well, it just goes on from there.

Afterward, once they've said goodnight and Mickey's polished off his fifth beer, he settles into the couch and flips through the pictures, watching Ian's face go from a composed, faux “fuck you” in the first to a red-faced, _elated_ grin in the fifth, showing off those straight white teeth and that crooked jaw. And then he's got the short, bitten nails of his middle fingers, which are held sideways like he's trying to be so fucking _cool_.

Mickey's a little bit drunk and a little bit giddy as he saves that picture to his phone and looks at it a little bit more.

\---

See, Mickey's not a selfie-taker. He doesn't take pictures of himself, he doesn't post a lot of shit on Instagram, and really, his camera roll at this point's about sixty percent pictures of Ian and forty percent pictures of Jovi. He doesn't really see a _point_ to taking pictures of himself because honestly, why would he? Why would he want to flip through his photos in five years to see awkwardly posed shots of his mug?

But one night, he _considers_.

It's Saturday night, and he's just had a long, leisurely shower, and he's jerked off in this slow, indulgent way he can only really enjoy on nights when he knows he doesn't work the next morning. He's in his boxers, and his cheeks are flushed a healthy pink, and as he stares at himself in the bathroom mirror before he brushes his teeth, he thinks, well, why not? He actually looks kind of _good_ right now, maybe, or at least he looks better than usual.

And fuck, if Ian Gallagher can take a thousand shirtless photos of himself doing stupid shit like shaving and eating Lucky Charms, he sure as hell can take one picture of himself in front of the bathroom mirror.

Mickey bites the bullet and takes the picture. 

It's innocuous as hell with no intentions of looking sexy, just Mickey standing casually in front of the mirror, mid-abdomen and up exposed.

He stares at it on his phone for a minute, chewing his lip. 

He looks _alright_. Maybe. He plays with the settings, putting on the Vivid Cool filter, which brightens up his skin and gives his abs just a _little bit more_ definition.

Mickey's breathing picks up when he considers what to do with it now. Does he send it to Ian? Like, with what, a stupid caption? A greeting?

Does he _post_ it? No fucking way will he _post it_. 

If he's going to send it to Ian—and the jury's still out on that one—he's gotta send it directly. 

He opens up the app and attaches the picture. With his thumb hovering over the send arrow, though, he reconsiders.

This app's not secure at all, is it? And everything's probably logged, saved, everything submitted one way or another belonging to this company who's gonna own every word, every picture.

Mickey deletes the attachment.

And well, he _could_ send it through Instagram direct message, but that's too personal. Mickey's not fooling himself—this is a business transaction—and he can't send this shit through Instagram: _to_ Ian Gallagher, _from_ Mickey Milkovich.

He heads over to the main page of the kestrel app, eyes scanning the page.

Fuck it.

He's gonna have to do it anyway if he ever wants to progress with this—if he ever wants to get fucked by phone, video, or in person.

The price is getting a little up there, and it's going to set him back a bit every week, but whatever. Mickey Milkovich is actually pretty savvy with his budgeting and his savings, and he can make it work.

He upgrades his subscription.

\---

With the Gold Package, Mickey has options. He can choose to continue his use of the app—now with the added ability to do voice and video chat— _or_ he can connect with Ian through his phone's normal text, voice, and FaceTime features by way of a phone number that will be sent to him.

Mickey's nervous as he stares at his phone, waiting on the number to come through. It occurs to him that this is _a whooole 'nother level_. He'll be able to save Ian as a contact in his phone, and it'll be like texting someone he knows, like texting Mandy, and there'll be that _ding_ text tone rather than the vibration of a kestrel alert, and it just...

It feels _real_ right now. 

Mickey heads into the kitchen to grab a beer.

And he doesn't know why he thought it would be an immediate process, but aside from receiving an email notification regarding the account upgrade, he doesn't hear anything for the rest of the night.

It isn't until Sunday afternoon when he's just back from a grocery run and is putting away his six pack of Old Style and his gallon of milk when he receives a message from Ian.

\------------------------

 **Ian (4:35 PM):** Hey. Sorry. Don't leave me a bad review.

 **Ian (4:35 PM):** I saw you upgraded yesterday, and I was supposed to get this shit to you within 12 hours, but I had a really fucking bad night.

 **Mickey (4:36 PM):** It's cool. You alright?

 **Ian (4:37 PM):** Yeah. I'm good. Sorry. Maybe I'll tell you about it sometime?

\------------------------

“Sometime,” meaning not now. Mickey gets it. Shrugs.

\------------------------

 **Ian (4:37 PM):** Anyway, let me tell you about the Gold Package. Thanks for upgrading, by the way!

 **Ian (4:38 PM):** At this level, we can either stick to the app or take things off-app, which some clients prefer in order to get a more private, authentic experience. If we go off-app, I'll give you a number, and if you're comfortable with it, we can just text, call, and FaceTime through our iPhones. If you're not comfortable with that, you'll see that you're now able to call and send video chat requests through the kestrel client. 

**Ian (4:38 PM):** Let me know what you prefer!

 **Mickey (4:41 PM):** Got it, C-3PO

 **Mickey (4:41 PM):** Phone number. I hate opening up this fuckin app all the time.

 **Ian (4:42 PM):** You don't let anybody off easy, do you? Am I gonna have to go through all my pre-written messages and personalize them for you? 

**Ian (4:42 PM):** Don't answer that because I have one more for you:

 **Ian (4:43 PM):** Great! My number is 312-555-0116. Please add it to your address book, and we can pick up our conversation from there! Let me know if you have any questions.

 **Ian (4:43 PM):** Motherfucker. 🖕

\------------------------

Grinning, Mickey adds Ian to his contacts, taking his time to write out “Ian Gallagher” as his name and adding the picture of him smoking as his contact photo.

He opens up iMessage and starts a new conversation.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (4:51 PM):** You talk to all your clients that way?

 **Ian (4:51 PM):** Not unless they ask nicely.

\------------------------

Mickey snorts and moves over to the couch. He fumbles around for his pack of cigarettes and lights up.

\------------------------

 **Ian (4:53 PM):** So let's christen iMessage with a good old fashioned photo exchange. 

\------------------------

He sends through a picture that's gorgeous as fuck. It was clearly taken in portrait mode, as the background's blurred, and it's just a simple, straightforward, shoulders-up picture. Ian's wearing a blue collared shirt under a navy jacket, and he looks fresh and put-together like he's ready to take on the day.

Mickey zooms in on the picture and runs a finger over his freckled cheeks.

Ian sends through a request for more Jovi.

Mickey puts his cigarette in the ashtray on the side-table and snaps his fingers three times in rapid succession. He hears a thump, a chirp, and then the gentle tap-tap-taps of the cat running toward him.

“C'mere, little dude,” Mickey murmurs, patting the couch cushion beside him.

Jovi looks at him for a minute, licking at his lips and flitting his tail, and then hops up for ear rubs.

Mickey smiles and hooks an arm around the cat, pulling him up and cradling him against his chest.

“Let's take our fuckin' picture for this guy, huh,” he says, putting his own camera in portrait mode, goddammit, and holding it out to snap a picture.

He takes a couple, then lets the cat go free with a fond stroke down his back.

Mickey's stubbly, having not shaved since Saturday morning, and he's got a hole in the neck seam of his green crew-neck. The cat doesn't look too great, either, as he was wiggly as fuck and isn't even remotely looking at the camera, but well. Mickey huffs a bit and, with a shrug, sends the picture.

And he nearly strokes out when he gets the response.

\------------------------

 **Ian (5:02 PM):** 😍

\------------------------

Okay, so it isn't the first time he's sent that emoji, but it was always to a picture of just the cat. And Mickey knows— _logically_ —that Ian's reacting to the cat because Ian's _Ian_ and he's just _like that_ , just sweet like that about animals and shit.

But his heart still pounds and pounds to the point that he feels a little lightheaded.

And there's something else to consider with texting versus messaging through the app. Now, Mickey gets to watch the dancing dots as Ian types in stops and starts, and he honestly don't know whether he loves it or hates it—especially as he watches it happen now.

\------------------------

 **Ian (5:03 PM):** “A Man and His Cat”

 **Ian (5:03 PM):** I like your stubble, by the way.

\------------------------

 _Fuck_.

He shouldn't _say things like that_ because now Mickey's _thinking_.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (5:04 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (5:05 PM):** That was actually very genuine. It looks good on you.

 **Mickey (5:05 PM):** Yeah yeah

 **Mickey (5:06 PM):** Itchy as fuck

 **Ian (5:06 PM):** Take the compliment, bitch. 😎

 **Mickey (5:07 PM):** Compliment taken. 🖕

\------------------------

There's a lull in conversation. During this time, Mickey gets an alert from Instagram stating that Ian has posted a new photo.

He clicks over and sees he's uploaded the portrait he sent Mickey along with the caption, “Pre-work. Post-coffee.”

What the hell. Mickey double-taps.

\------------------------

 **Ian (5:15 PM):** Thanks for the like. 

**Ian (5:16 PM):** Also, can I say something?

 **Mickey (5:16 PM):** What

 **Ian (5:17 PM):** You accidentally liking that picture on my insta last month is actually the funniest fucking thing.

 **Mickey (5:18 PM):** Fuck you

 **Ian (5:18 PM):** Like, it's such a classically awkward situation. I bet you were panicking. I would've been.

 **Mickey (5:19 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (5:21 PM):** But I want you to know that it's totally fine. I'm toootally cool with you insta-stalking me.

 **Mickey (5:22 PM):** Bitch I'm leaving.

 **Ian (5:22 PM):** 😂😂

 **Ian (5:25 PM):** Don't go. 

\------------------------

And Mickey does go—or at least pretends to—if only because it's fun as hell. He minimizes iMessage and the camera pops up, and he sneaks a peek at his face, which is redder than he's ever seen it, and _fuck_ , he's grinning like a stupid kid.

\------------------------

 **Ian (5:27 PM):** Don't go. 😂

 **Ian (5:29 PM):** You dick! 😂😂

 **Ian (5:33 PM):** Did you actually leave?

 **Ian (5:35 PM):** Yo!

\------------------------

Mickey smirks and lights up another cigarette. And he's all good with watching Ian text him over and over again while he grins and hears the happy, _happy_ surge of blood in his ears as his heart pounds. 

But when Ian doesn't actually say anything else, he rolls his eyes and swipes back over to iMessage.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (5:39 PM):** That's what you get. 🖕

 **Ian (5:39 PM):** 😏

\------------------------

They talk again later that night, which isn't unusual in and of itself but is when they have nothing pressing to discuss.

It's nearing ten, and Mickey's eating salt and vinegar pork rinds and idly shooting zombies on the Xbox.

His phone _ding_ s, and it's so out of the ordinary for Mickey—someone who receives one or two texts per week _at the most_ —that he jumps, hand jerking in the bag and rattling it enough to scare Jovi from his slumber at the other end of the couch.

Pausing his game, Mickey grabs his phone and sees Ian's sent him a photo.

It's of a bowl of Frosted Flakes with bananas, and Ian's sent with it, “Brinner.”

\------------------------

 **Mickey (9:52 PM):** Order a fuckin pizza. That's just sad, man.

 **Ian (9:52 PM):** Sad and delicious.

 **Ian (9:52 PM):** What's your favorite cereal?

 **Mickey (9:53 PM):** What kinda dumb fuckin question is that

 **Ian (9:53 PM):** Answer it, bitch. 

**Mickey (9:54 PM):** I dunno, like Reese's Puffs??

 **Ian (9:54 PM):** Good answer. 👍

 **Mickey (9:55 PM):** You weird motherfucker

 **Ian (9:55 PM):** And to reward you...

 **Ian (9:55 PM):** I'm accepting picture requests for the next five minutes. Get to thinking.

 **Mickey (9:56 PM):** What 

\------------------------

What does that even _mean_? Mickey closes out of his game and mutes the menu screen so he can concentrate.

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:56 PM):** Tell me what you wanna see, and I'll make it happen.

 **Ian (9:56 PM):** Within reason.

\------------------------

Is this a sex thing? Is Ian wanting him to like, dial in a request to see his _dick_?

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:57 PM):** Doesn't have to be a sex thing. Just play along! 

\------------------------

Mickey scrolls through their conversation, heart pounding, making sure he didn't accidentally ask the question on his mind.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (9:58 PM):** So you're like eating cereal right now and you want me to request something I wanna see in a picture

 **Ian (9:58 PM):** You are literally 0% fun. But yes. 

**Mickey (9:59 PM):** Like what

\------------------------

Mickey _knows_. It's not like he doesn't understand the whole thing. He knows exactly what Ian's getting at, but this is _new_. He's sweating.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:00 PM):** Mickey.

\------------------------

He bites his lip. This is his fuckin' _chance_. It seems like Ian's down for most anything, and Mickey could probably ask for pictures to fill his spank bank for a month.

But he's also finely tuned in to Ian, here, and he _knows_ Ian's not just asking for picture requests. He's asking what Mickey _likes_. And no matter what Mickey says, Ian's gonna find out whether Mickey's into him and how much.

Fine. Whatever.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:04 PM):** Ok fine. Whatever.

 **Mickey (10:05 PM):** Eating your fuckin corn flakes in your underwear

 **Ian (10:06 PM):** 😂

 **Ian (10:06 PM):** Give me a sec.

 **Ian (10:07 PM):** And they're Frosted Flakes. 🖕

\------------------------

Mickey sets down his phone and rubs his hands over his face. His skin feels hot, and _fuck_ , he's horny as hell just thinking about Ian in his underwear.

Idly, he rubs his hand over himself through his shorts—just a little, just enough to relieve some of the pressure. 

He flips off the cat, who's looking at him.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:16 PM):** Okay, okay. So, lucky for me, I was kinda already in my underwear.

 **Ian (10:17 PM):** I wasn't EXACTLY sure what you were looking for, so I took three.

\------------------------

Mickey holds his breath as the pictures come through. And _goddammit_ , of course they'd be slow to load, just three empty boxes with gray “downloading” symbols for what feels like five minutes. He taps his fingers against the sides of his phone, waiting.

But when they come in, Mickey has to turn off the screen for a second to breathe before he can concentrate enough to look at them. 

He knows immediately that these are—by far—the sexiest of all the pictures Ian's sent him. And though they're still pretty tame and there's none of that “come hither” look in his eye or blatant sexuality, there's this sweet, sexy playfulness to them that the other pictures thus far have lacked.

The first is the one modeled exactly after Mickey's request. Ian—who's apparently propped up his phone in the kitchen and put it on self-timer—is standing in front of a white refrigerator in a pair of burgundy slim-fit cotton boxers.

They're _low_ , though—lower than his regular boxers—and for the first time, Mickey can see his deep-cut v-lines and more of that ginger hair below his navel. Due to the phone being on self-timer, Mickey's also able to see his _legs_ , at least down to his knees, and they're slim and pale and strong.

Ian's holding the bowl in front of his chest and is mid-bite, milk dripping off the sides of the spoon.

In the second picture, Ian's closer, and he's sort of bent at the waist a bit like he's trying to make sure his head's in frame. He still has the cereal bowl, but it's held out to the side, and his abs are fully on display, flexed like he's doing crunches.

He's being stupid in the third, and it's easily Mickey's favorite. He's sitting up on the counter, his whole body in view down to his socks, and he's got his middle finger up and a spoon in his mouth, and he's just grinning around that spoon like he's happy as fuck.

Mickey rubs his thumb back and forth over his bottom lip.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:26 PM):** Did you get them?

 **Mickey (10:27 PM):** Yeah

 **Ian (10:27 PM):** You like?

\------------------------

Hell yeah, he _likes_. They're now saved on his phone for further inspection in the dark of his room, he _likes_.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:29 PM):** Weird as far as photo shoots go

 **Mickey (10:29 PM):** But yeah

 **Ian (10:30 PM):** Just doing as requested. 😏

\------------------------

No one texts for several minutes. 

Mickey's zoomed in on Ian's abs in the second picture and is considering just shoving his hand down his shorts and going for it when he receives another message.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:41 PM):** Hey.

 **Mickey (10:41 PM):** Hey?

 **Ian (10:42 PM):** You can definitely say no, so please don't feel obligated or whatever.

 **Ian (10:42 PM):** But do you think you could maybe send me something?

 **Ian (10:43 PM):** If you want. Only if you want.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey's heart pounds so hard it feels like one of those cartoons with the _thump-thump_ , _thump-thump_ heart shape jumping out of the character's chest cavity.

He fumbles around for a cigarette, hands shaking, because there's just something about the way Ian _said_ it that's getting to him.

Send _him_ something. Like he _wants_ it.

Fuck.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:45 PM):** It's okay if not. Don't worry about it.

 **Mickey (10:45 PM):** What would you want

 **Ian (10:46 PM):** Please say no if you're not into it.

 **Ian (10:46 PM):** But I dunno. Something with your shirt off?

\------------------------

Mickey's breathing so hard he has to open his mouth.

Is Ian going to like, _jerk off_ to him? Maybe Mickey's projecting, but isn't that what you do with shirtless pictures? Especially if you _ask_ for them?

When he'd taken the picture of himself in front of the bathroom mirror, it was more out of a sense of fairness than any expectation of Ian actively _wanting_ it. 

Hurriedly, he opens up his camera roll and clicks over to it.

He thinks it looks nowhere near as good as Ian's photos, but, well. It's what Ian's asking for, isn't it?

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:49 PM):** Yeah, ok

 **Ian (10:50 PM):** Really?

 **Mickey (10:50 PM):** 🖕 Yeah yeah, just hold on.

\------------------------

He sends the picture and bites down on his bottom lip so hard he leaves indentations in the thin skin.

And Ian is silent for so long that Mickey feels like he's going to explode, like his brain's about to come out his ears.

Finally, there are the dancing dots. They start and stop over and over again.

\------------------------

 **Ian (10:57 PM):** I'm just gonna say it. You're in trouble. 

**Ian (10:58 PM):** 'cause there's no way in hell we're not adding those to our repertoire. 

\------------------------

Mickey presses his palms over his eyes and then drags his hands down his face.

\---

Fuck. He's so fucking _into him_.

\---

Three days later, Mickey wakes to an Instagram notification stating that Ian has added to his story.

When he looks at the clock, he sees it's still early, so he snuggles down under his blankets, rubs at his eye to clear away the sleep, and clicks the notification to open up the app.

Ian's story is a short, shoulders-up video of him taking a drink from a white mug that says “Fuck You” in a large, swirling, calligraphy font. 

He looks _sleepy_ , with puffy eyes and the wildest bedhead Mickey's seen on him, and Mickey watches the video over and over again before he feels ready to get up for the day.

\---

Ian texts him after work with a screenshot of a list of people who viewed his story. He has Mickey's account name circled.

“Hope you enjoyed my sleepy content,” his message says, and Mickey sends back an eye-roll emoji.

First, he didn't know that was a thing, and second, he hopes it doesn't show how _many_ times he viewed it.

He does make up for it later, though, when he's feeling a little brave and maybe a little drunk and perhaps a little content. It's warm in his apartment, so he's just sitting around in his boxers, and he thinks, “Might as well” and sends Ian a shirtless selfie.

Much like his smoking selfie a few weeks before, the lighting's dim and he's probably trying too hard to appear casual, but Mickey looks at it and doesn't hate it. It's _alright_.

He sends it to Ian, and like with the Jovi photo exchange, receives one back only a few minutes later.

Ian's in the mirror, and he's sweaty and red-faced, his hair disheveled and sticking to his forehead. He has running shorts on that are riding ultra low on his hips, and there's no sliver of underwear peeking over the band this time, just a lot of skin and a patch of soft, fuzzy hair above the draw string.

\------------------------

 **Ian (7:12 PM):** Not that I'm complaining, but I was joking when I said you had to add your shirtless pics to our repertoire.

 **Mickey (7:12 PM):** Whatever

\------------------------

Mickey looks at Ian's picture again, zooming in and pretty blatantly staring at the low line of his shorts and, with a quirk of his mouth, decides he might as well say it.

“Shorts are ridin a little low, man” he texts, and he hopes Ian gets the implied wink without him having to stoop so low as to put in a fuckin' emoji.

Two minutes later he receives a blurry picture of Ian's middle finger.

He grins.

\---

Mickey's not used to being _happy_.

It's not like he was fully moping around before, depressed and sad all the time, but now that he's got this _thing_ , this whatever-the-fuck-it-is with Ian, it feels like all the stupid, insignificant shit he used to worry about or that used to bother him from day to day is _nothing_.

He'll be at work filling out boring paperwork or apprehending some dumbass kid with a Nintendo Switch down his pants, and it'll be like this thread of calm has worked its way in his ear and into his brain—just the notion that there's a hot redhead somewhere in Chicago who's probably going to text him later.

And maybe it's because he's been bored as hell for the past five years as he _scraped_ , and maybe he's just _horny_ , that deep-itch horny, but even though he still doesn't have a lot going on in his day-to-day life, he's doing shit now that he hasn't done in years.

He's been walking a lot more and has even gotten himself a pair of running shorts now that the weather's warmer. And on some evenings after work, before it starts getting dark, he'll jog a loop through the neighborhood and return to his apartment sweaty and warm and jacked up on endorphins.

He's also been masturbating like a fiend. Something that he used to do on an average of four times a week has now increased to about ten—sometimes twice per day—and it's really good to be able to just close his eyes and think about those goddamn low-riding shorts and sweaty ginger chest hairs and those stupid socked feet in the cereal pictures and slowly work himself into a pant, then into a groan.

So yeah, he's happy, and he feels good, and for the first time in months—ever since he started using kestrel—that weird, “I shouldn't be doing this, _why_ am I doing this?” feeling has begun to dissipate.

\---

Of course, that's the moment when Mickey hears Ian's voice for the first time since he was sixteen and this cold, niggling tingle starts to work its way up his spine.

It's a Sunday three months in when he wakes to another series of alerts on his phone in the form of texts and Instagram notifications.

Groaning and sleepy due to the early hour, Mickey yawns and opens up the text.

He's expecting a picture, maybe, or some sort of covert brag about how beautiful the morning is and how peaceful it was on his six mile jog; instead, Ian's sent a voice memo.

There's the _womp womp_ sound of music in the background, and Ian sounds like he's yelling over a crowd.

\------------------------

 _Mickeeeeeeey. Heeey! It's Ian. Shut uuup. I'm talkin' to Mickey. I'm TALKING. To Mickey!_ He laughs to someone around him. _Anyway. Mickey! I was jus' thinkin' about this, this, this like this THING I remember like, like from Little League when I was like nine years old. Remember that?_ His voice gets fainter, like he's leaned away from the phone to talk to someone. _Shut up. I a'ready tooold you. I'm talkin' to Mickey. Anyway. Fuck! Little League. Were you the kid that got like fuckin', fuckin' kicked off for pissin' on first base 'cause I was jus' thinkin' about it. I dunno, Mickey. I'm reeeaaal drunk, but I jus' thought--_

\------------------------

It cuts off suddenly, like the recording ran out or someone took his phone from him. _Jesus Christ_ , he was wasted as fuck. Mickey laughs and listens to the recording again, snorting at every excited, slurred word.

And _fuck_ , he remembers Little League. Mostly he remembers how his dad beat the shit out of him after he got kicked off the team.

Taking a deep breath, Mickey taps over to Instagram and checks Ian's story. He's posted a video cut into three segments, and really, somebody needs to take his phone away from him when he's drunk.

He's wearing a black tank-top and fucking _eye-liner_ , and in the videos, he's holding up his phone and splitting the time between filming the crowd of what looks like a gay club and himself dancing with a girl and another man in a gold mesh top. He's _whoop_ ing like the _worst_ of sloppy drunk college kids on Spring Break.

Mickey bites his lip and watches the video again, pressing down and holding to pause the video when the gold mesh guy's in view.

He's good looking—brunet, tan, built like a calendar fireman—and he's got an arm around Ian's waist as they dance.

Breath up and heart pounding inexplicably, Mickey clicks off of the story and checks Ian's tagged photos. He's been tagged in a photo set by Jake Foreman, who Mickey confirms is the gold mesh guy after opening up the photos.

“Thirsty 30!!! Thankful for these crazy kids for celebrating with me!!” the caption reads, and though most of the pictures are of Jake with various other glittery dudes and a couple of drag queens, Ian's in three of them: one with the girl from the video, the two of them each with an arm around Jake's middle; another on his own with his tank-top pulled up like he's doing a body roll and wants to show off his abs; and the last one, which makes Mickey's blood boil even though he knows, he _knows_ it shouldn't, is a picture of Jake with his tongue out, licking Ian's cheek.

Mickey closes the app and turns off his phone screen before he does something fucking stupid like click over to Jake's profile and look at all his pictures. And it's _early_ , and he's still tired and he needs a shower and just, fucking _Ian_.

Stupid hot ginger asshole.

Mickey's _pissed_ and horny and mostly he's frustrated as _hell_ because he wants to riot over this but he knows he has absolutely no right whatsoever. 

Sure, Ian's hot and dorky and he talks too much but in a way that makes Mickey really _happy_ , but in the end, he's a service Mickey's paying for. Ian can go out and fuck and dance and fall in love with whomever he goddamn pleases because he's just doing his job when he's talking to Mickey. Just being good at what he does.

Mickey pulls up the pictures again because, after all, he hates himself, and clicks over to the profile of the girl who's tagged along with Ian. Her name's Ellie Sanchez, and she's posted some stories from the night, as well. Mickey clicks through most of them, as they're just Ellie with other people, but the last one is of Ian asleep in what looks like a cab or an Uber, with pink writing that says, “lil drunk baby ❤️️🍸🍺”.

Mickey watches that clip over and over again, and it really looks like it's just her and Ian, suggesting he didn't go home with Jake, at least.

And Mickey realizes he's obsessing like a desperate, pathetic son of a bitch, so he puts his phone on the charger and gets the fuck out of his room.

He has two cups of coffee, eats some leftover pizza, and jogs a three-mile loop before returning for a shower and a couple hours of beating the shit out of characters in _Mortal Kombat 11_.

At four, Mrs. Callaghan asks him to come down and put together a pain in the ass shelving unit the delivery man had dropped off, and he does in exchange for a Tupperware container of chicken casserole, which he has for dinner, straight from the container, while watching three back-to-back episodes of _Law & Order: SVU_.

By the time he checks his phone, it's after eight, and he has several texts from Ian.

\------------------------

 **Ian (3:11 PM):** Mickey, for all that is good in this world, don't listen to the voice memo. ✌️

 **Ian (5:26 PM):** So, I'm assuming you listened to it.

 **Ian (5:29 PM):** I should apologize. I was wasted beyond belief. To say I'm a lightweight is the understatement of the century, and I really overdid it last night.

 **Ian (5:32 PM):** It was also extremely unprofessional of me to have sent that shit to a client; not being under the influence during business communication is one of the major rules of the company, and it was completely stupid of me to even have my work phone on me, let alone to use it to contact you while I was trashed. I'm sorry about that, and it won't happen again.

 **Ian (5:35 PM):** I understand if you want to leave a bad review for me, but if there's anything I can do instead, please let me know.

\------------------------

That professional bullshit. Mickey rubs his thumb across his bottom lip, back and forth.

And really that, _that_ is what pisses him off and confuses the fuck out of him about Ian sometimes. He'll be as unguarded and seemingly free as hell one minute, and the next he's sending shit like this, apologizing for being “unprofessional” like every word he's said has been all part of the grand illusion he feels he's failing at creating.

Mickey presses his palms against his eyes—hard—and takes a deep breath.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:15 PM):** Just chill with the fuckin apologies or whatever. I don't care if you were drunk or if you think it was unprofessional, just stop talking about shit like this like you've got a fuckin gun to your head.

 **Ian (8:17 PM):** I could get so fucking fired for this, Mickey.

 **Mickey (8:18 PM):** Yeah if I report you. Why the fuck would I do that?

 **Ian (8:19 PM):** Because you're my client, and I was off my shit in that voice memo.

 **Ian (8:19 PM):** Fuck.

 **Ian (8:20 PM):** But I dunno. 

**Ian (8:20 PM):** You wouldn't. I know. 

**Ian (8:21 PM):** I'm just grumpy and paranoid.

 **Mickey (8:22 PM):** Can you just like, not talk about being unprofessional and shit. I'm not a fuckin snitch, I don't give a fuck about your drunk ass leaving me messages, so you're just like wasting your time with this corporate bullshit.

\------------------------

And more than anything, he _really_ wants to say, “You were friends with my goddamn sister and you used to work at the fucking store I used to steal shit from. We were in Little League together. I'm not your typical client.” But well, he _is_ a client, in the end.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:24 PM):** Yeah. Sorry.

 **Ian (8:24 PM):** Sorry. I can get like this sometimes. 

**Ian (8:24 PM):** I understand what you're saying.

 **Mickey (8:25 PM):** Just chill. Everything's cool.

 **Ian (8:25 PM):** Thanks.

 **Mickey (8:26 PM):** Yep

\------------------------

And Mickey doesn't know why, but he feels like he just talked Ian down from the ledge.

“You alright?” he asks because, well, shit's weird right now.

The dots come up and dance, dance, stop for the longest time, then dance again. It's nearly four minutes before Ian replies with far fewer words than his typing suggested.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:31 PM):** Just hungover. Not feeling great.

 **Mickey (8:32 PM):** Got it

 **Mickey (8:33 PM):** Well you did apparently dance and drink the night away if your Instagram story's any indication

 **Ian (8:34 PM):** Fuck. Yeah. Real fucking weird having you on my insta. Definitely not used to this kind of walk of shame. 😑

 **Mickey (8:35 PM):** Ain't nothin to be ashamed of, man

 **Ian (8:36 PM):** A friend from work turned thirty, and a couple of us took him to a club to celebrate. He just went through a bad breakup, so we mostly wanted to get him laid.

 **Mickey (8:36 PM):** It work?

 **Ian (8:37 PM):** Well, he disappeared after about an hour and we never saw him again, so probably?

\------------------------

Mickey's breathing settles, and he feels his insides all click back together in place, like a puzzle piece gone askew and righted once more.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:39 PM):** So like do you hang out with people who work for the app? Do you work in a building with like cubicles and shit?

 **Ian (8:39 PM):** 🤨

 **Ian (8:40 PM):** Oh! No. Friends from my day job. The app's a side gig, really. I couldn't live off it.

 **Mickey (8:41 PM):** What's your day job

 **Ian (8:42 PM):** I'm an EMT.

 **Mickey (8:42 PM):** No shit?

 **Ian (8:43 PM):** Yeah. And damn, it's weird being able to talk about this. This shit's like, classified information.

 **Mickey (8:44 PM):** So I'm allowed to know that you smoke and that you're an EMT

 **Ian (8:44 PM):** Mm hm. Feel special. 

**Ian (8:45 PM):** What do you do? Was I right? Are you a bodyguard?

 **Mickey (8:46 PM):** Not even close. 

**Mickey (8:46 PM):** Mall security officer

\------------------------

And Ian's really fucking nice about it, even if Mickey tells him it's not all that exciting when prompted to share his wildest stories. Especially not in comparison to the shit Ian deals with.

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:01 PM):** So you know a couple weeks ago when I said I had a really bad night?

 **Ian (9:04 PM):** Well, I was working 10 to 6, and there was a head-on between a passenger van and a school bus coming back from a field trip. It was horrific. 

**Ian (9:05 PM):** Like there were fucking teeth on the pavement and the van looked like an accordion. People were thrown out the front window. I had to help stabilize these little kids who were screaming and covered in blood. 

**Ian (9:06 PM):** It was just one after another. We lost some people. The driver of the van and a couple passengers.

 **Mickey (9:06 PM):** Shit, man.

 **Ian (9:07 PM):** Yeah. Bad night. And that shit's hard. 

**Ian (9:07 PM):** But I fucking love my job. It's like the one place in my life where I feel needed and like I make a difference, I guess. Even though that's cheesy as fuck.

\------------------------

He sells himself short.

\---

They've been talking for over an hour when Mickey tells Ian to “go to sleep, you hungover bitch.”

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:41 PM):** Probably should. Thanks for talking to me. It took my mind off my other shit.

\------------------------

And Mickey could leave it at that, but he doesn't.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (9:42 PM):** You sure you're ok?

 **Ian (9:43 PM):** Yeah. Thanks for asking.

 **Ian (9:43 PM):** There's just some other stuff that I deal with, I guess, and it makes me weird sometimes. I'll tell you about it another day, maybe. 

**Ian (9:44 PM):** But thanks. Really. 

**Mickey (9:44 PM):** Yep

 **Ian (9:45 PM):** Goodnight, Mickey.

 **Mickey (9:45 PM):** Night

\------------------------

He figures Ian's probably already asleep when he sends it. But after reading and rereading their conversation, he decides that he can't _not_.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (10:21 PM):** You sell yourself short, you know

 **Ian (10:24 PM):** Hm?

 **Mickey (10:24 PM):** I dunno, that stuff you were saying about your job being the only thing that makes you feel like you make a difference. You just sell yourself short

 **Mickey (10:25 PM):** You were probably sleeping but I just wanted to tell you that I guess.

 **Ian (10:27 PM):** Thanks, Mickey. 😊

 **Mickey (10:27 PM):** Night

 **Ian (10:28 PM):** Night.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey had thought that things would change once Ian found out who he was, but really, _this_ is the week that things change. Because even though they've been talking for months, it's only this week that they talk about more than petty, insignificant shit and who's annoying as fuck and why.

They talk every single night this week, and it's for hours—like, full-fledged conversations from around seven until ten—and it's about real shit, like people who are pissing Ian off at work and their favorite television shows and fuckin' gentrification in their old neighborhood.

He learns that Ian's a smart son of a bitch who works his ass off for things he wants. That he likes to play the hero, but he's also a good person who's too hard on himself when he fails. 

He learns that he's a huge dork. 

But well, Mickey kind of knew that already.

\---

On Friday night, Ian sends a selfie of him holding up a bowl with his eyebrows raised, and Mickey _knows_ it's cereal again. 

He sends back an eye-roll emoji, and he's just about to put his phone away, thinking Ian was just sending him that picture to playfully bother him, when he receives a text that makes his lungs seize up.

“How do you feel about phone calls?”

 _Fuck_.

Mickey had been milling around the apartment, smoking and feeding the cat and picking with his fingers at a pie Mrs. Callaghan had given him, but after reading the text, he immediately stops everything he's doing and goes straight to the couch.

How does he feel about phone calls?

Well, assuming he wants to eventually advance the situation, he's gonna to have to talk to Ian at some point. And fuck, he's probably, _hopefully_ , eventually gonna have the guy balls deep in his ass, so there are some things he's gonna just have to get the fuck over.

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:48 PM):** Can I call you?

\------------------------

Mickey taps his fingers against the side of his phone, quickly, nervously, and bites his lip.

\------------------------

 **Mickey (8:49 PM):** Ok

\------------------------

And even though he's waiting for it, he jumps out of his skin and almost drops his phone when the call actually comes through.

His heart's racing, and even _Jovi_ 's looking at him like, “What are you even fuckin' doing, bro?”

\---

“Uh, hey,” he greets in a low voice after the fourth ring, idly rolling his cigarette between his right thumb and index fingers.

“Mickey,” Ian says, and his voice is bright and happy, and he sounds so _optimistic_ , somehow.

Mickey takes a hard drag and blows it out away from the phone. “Yeah.”

And everything is so awkward for a few minutes. Ian laughs a little, this staticky burst of air in Mickey's ear, and he knows the two of them are just sitting there, biting at their lips and trying to come up with something to say.

“Are you eating your fuckin' Wheaties again?” Mickey asks, finally, stretching out on his back and propping his feet on the couch armrest.

Ian scoffs like he's affronted. “What'd you have for dinner that's so much better?”

“Mac and cheese.”

“From a blue box?”

“No, asshole. Something my landlady made. And who fuckin' cares? It's actual food.”

“I eat _actual food_ , you dick.” Ian breaks, then, his stern voice growing soft and happy. “I just like sending you pictures every time I'm having cereal to piss off your cranky ass.”

There's quiet for a minute. Mickey smokes his cigarette and holds his left hand out for Jovi, who comes up to rub against him, curious, unaccustomed to Mickey talking so much in the apartment.

“Tell me about your landlady,” Ian says, little _crunch-crunch_ es coming over the line as he apparently chews his cereal. “She must like you.”

They talk about Mrs. Callaghan for a while, and the nerves twisted up in Mickey's stomach begin to slowly untangle until he's smoked his cigarette and switched over to a beer. And suddenly, it's twenty minutes later and he's laughing and rolling his eyes at something Ian's said to him.

“You fuckin' _dick_! What's wrong with you?”

Ian's just laughing and laughing, and it's the best thing Mickey's ever heard.

There's a few more minutes of idle chatter, and when Mickey can tell they're winding down, preparing to say goodbye, Ian throws out:

“You gotta pay up with your pictures, bitch. You owe me like, three.”

“I don't owe you fuckin' anything.”

“All I'm sayin' is that I'm like three pictures ahead of you this week alone.”

Mickey scoffs. “Yeah, okay. What the fuck'd you even want pictures of, anyway?”

“Ooh, are we taking requests now?”

“No. Fuck you.” Mickey laughs a little through his nose. “And anyway, I'm sure you've got like ten old dudes sendin' ya pictures of their wrinkly sacks.”

“Mmm. And as hot as that is...” Ian snorts, and Mickey really just wants to see a picture of his face right now.

“So how many clients _do_ you have?”

There's the squeaky sound of Ian sucking at his lips, thinking, and then, “Like, eight? There's actually a few I haven't heard from in a while, but they're still subscribed, so.”

Idly, Mickey wonders how many he's fucking. He's not gonna ask 'cause, well, whatever, but he does _wonder_. And the wondering alone gives him a slowly building burn in his chest.

“Bet I'm the only one movin' at a snail's pace,” he says instead, immediately wondering if he should have. He runs his hand over his face and sighs.

“Yeah, but.” Ian pauses for a second, and from the noises in the background, it seems like he's putting his bowl in the sink and puttering around the kitchen. “It's actually kinda nice. Most of my clients buy the Gold Package and wanna do video stuff in like the first week. Mostly it's older closeted men who wanna talk to me and watch me jerk off. Which is fine. But, y'know. I like this.”

Mickey's quiet for a few minutes, just listening to Ian move around his home.

“So how'd you get into this?” he finally asks, once it seems Ian's settled somewhere.

Ian makes a little “ _eh_ ” noise, like he's not too interested in going there. “I like sex. I'm good at it. Why not do something you like for some extra money?” There's a squeaking sound, like he's moving around on a bed. “I'm not like, a victim or anything, if that's what you're wondering.”

“Fuck no. That's not what I'm wondering.”

“I haven't always done it from a healthy mindset, and, y'know, that's something we can talk about later, but right now I'm doing it for me. I'm.” He pauses, and there's the staticky sound of him blowing out air into the receiver. “I'm trying real hard to be like, I dunno, a productive fuckin' member of society, I guess, and I want to like, have _savings_ and plans for the future, and working through the app helps me do that. Otherwise, I'd be throwing my entire salary into my apartment, and I wouldn't have anything for me.”

Mickey gets it. He understands wanting to have shit for yourself, especially after twenty years of having nothing at all.

“The American Fuckin' Dream,” he says, stroking at a purring Jovi, who's settled on his chest.

“You got it.”

\---

When they finally get off the phone, they've been talking for fifty minutes.

This would usually be the time when Mickey would reread their conversation, but since he can't do that, he pulls up a picture of Ian, instead. And he just looks at him and looks at him and thinks he's beautiful.

\---

He “pays up” in the form of three photos before bed, sending along a picture of Jovi, a picture of Mrs. Callaghan's empty macaroni and cheese container, and finally, feeling brave and bold and honestly, not that afraid this time, a picture of himself in his boxers.

He has a cheap full-length door mirror he bought at a garage sale for five bucks, and he just stands there in his short, navy boxers, holds up his middle finger, and snaps a picture.

He sends all three photos at once, turns off the lights, and climbs in bed.

Ian sends one back a few minutes later, and it's different from any Mickey's received before.

He's lying in bed with the bedside table lamp on, and he's wearing a gray t-shirt that's thin from years of washes—so thin that the points of his soft nipples are visible through the fabric—and he has a hunter green comforter pulled up to his waist.

His hand's lying flat on his abdomen, and he's just peering into the camera, not pulling a face, not smiling, not doing anything other than _looking_. 

Mickey saves the picture and examines it for a few minutes—zooming in to see his freckles, to see the bits of ginger armpit hair poking out from under the sleeve of the arm that's raised to take the photo.

And he thinks that's it; he's settling in to go to sleep.

Mickey turns off the screen of his phone and starts to lean over to connect the charging cable, but before he can, he receives one last text that makes his belly warm.

\------------------------

 **Ian (11:47 PM):** I like talking to you.

\------------------------

\---

As the weeks go by and they're nearing the end of their third month of talking, their conversations begin to take on the casual flavor of those between longtime friends—the most notable feature being that Ian starts texting Mickey about his other clients.

It starts off as a stray comment here and there:

\------------------------

 **Ian (9:02 PM):** Just got asked to jerk off into a pair of women's underwear. 😑

 **Mickey (9:03 PM):** Hot

\------------------------

\------------------------

 **Ian (8:11 PM):** One of my clients right now has the largest ballsack I've ever seen in my life.

 **Mickey (8:14 PM):** And I bet it's just covered in luscious gray hair

\------------------------

But eventually, he's full on _venting_ , and Mickey finds himself lying in bed at one in the morning, listening to Ian complain to him at length about how one of his clients is a fucking asshole.

“I mean, I usually don't care,” he's saying, and Mickey can hear his bedsprings creak as he wiggles around, irritated. “But he has _the worst_ fuckin' attitude. I mean, I'm used to it, and I get that we're like, role playing, I guess, but usually in these situations, the client's pretty _nice_ in the last few minutes of the session. I get that I'm a fuckin' cam boy and not his fuckin' husband, but it's still a weird, vulnerable moment when it's three seconds after I've just had a fuckin' orgasm, and he could _at least_ not basically call me trash. And like I said, I _usually_ don't care because the client's playing a role, but I'm like, ninety percent sure this guy's a legitimate cunty asshole who thinks I'm a piece of shit.”

Mickey rubs at his eyes. “Are you _fucking_ this guy?”

“Just video.” Ian's quiet for a minute before adding, “And he mostly just likes to watch me masturbate and ejaculate on stuff—objects, my stomach, the fuckin' _camera lens_ —so it's not bad or anything. I just wish he'd shut the fuck up.”

“You tried telling him to shut the fuck up?”

“Nah. It's business. Just,” he blows out a breath, “irritates me.”

“Want me to knock him around for ya?”

And Mickey's only very partially joking, he realizes, thinking about Ian having to put up with demeaning shit from some geriatric asshole.

Ian laughs. “Easy, killer. He's like, seventy. But thanks.”

“You're not _gonna_ fuck him, are you?”

“ _Hell_ no. I'll just drop him if he tries to upgrade.”

There are a few moments of silence. Mickey stretches out his legs and pulls the blankets up higher on his chest.

“Fuck,” Ian suddenly says, as if hit with an epiphany. “I shouldn't be talking about this shit. You're gonna leave me a bad review when all's said and done.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Terrible fuckin' review.”

“Mm. What would you say?”

“I dunno.” Mickey huffs out a laugh. “Told dumb jokes. Ate fuckin' cereal for dinner. Demanded daily pictures of my cat.”

“I like your cat.”

“Liked my cat more than me.”

“Well, that's true. Go ahead and post that.”

Mickey grins, and he knows in that moment that Ian's doing the exact same thing, and it feels better than just about anything in the world.

It's in that moment that Ian _yawns_ , this loud, exaggerated yawn, and Mickey snorts on the outside while his stomach _twists_ on the inside.

“Alright, go to bed,” he says, voice stern in a way that he knows doesn't fool Ian one bit.

There's another yawn and then Ian mumbles, “Sorry for keeping you up so late. Thanks for listening to me vent.”

“Yeah, yeah. What-” Mickey breaks into a yawn, himself. “-ever.”

“Night, Mick. Sleep tight.”

\---

Mickey says goodnight, and when he hangs up, he leans his head back on his pillow, closes his eyes, and just _smiles_. Fucking Ian Gallagher.

And it's been over a week since Ian sent the first message, so Mickey doesn't know whether what he's about to send is even going to compute. But in this moment, in this stupid, fucking moment, he doesn't care.

He picks up his phone, opens up his message thread with Ian, and in probably his boldest, bravest move yet, types out six stupid, fucking words that Ian just really needs to know:

\------------------------

 **Mickey (1:31 AM):** I like talking to you too

\------------------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fun facts about Chapter 4  
> -I wasn't lying about them taking things slow, guys.
> 
> -I think “fuck” is used more and more every chapter. But, well, it's Mickey, and sometimes sentences don't sound right without it.
> 
> -Mickey may not like to hear it, but Ian is actually being very unprofessional. But! He would never be that way with anyone else. Just Mickey.
> 
> -Ian's bipolar _is_ a thing in this fic, but it won't be a major plot point. It's just going to be here because it's a part of him, and it's going to affect him sometimes. But the Ian in this story does, for the most part, have it under control.
> 
> -On that note, please also know that I'm playing pretty fast and loose with alcohol x bipolar meds as the show does the same. Just know that I know it probably isn't super accurate, but I'm not being willfully ignorant. I'm just using two contradictory bits of “canon” from the show to suit the story, and those are that a) Ian shouldn't be drinking alcohol, as it fucks him up and messes with his meds, and b) Ian can, however, still somehow have the occasional beer with no major issues, as in season 10. So, combining them in an effort to adhere to canon, I'm going to say that alcohol messes him up when abused, but if he's careful, slow, and pays attention to his body, he can still enjoy an occasional beer.
> 
> -I'm desperate to get Ian in some boxer briefs, but does he ever actually wear them at any point? There are a few scenes where we see them poking out the top of his jeans, but I always figured that was Cam's underwear and not part of the costume. Do we ever see Ian in costume underwear that isn't traditional boxer shorts? (esp. in seasons 8 and most of 9 because, well, I may or may not have just skimmed over them)
> 
> Thank you all so, so much for being great. I'm having a blast writing this, and I hope you're enjoying reading it. And thank you, especially, to anyone who rec'd or reblogged my update post on Tumblr. As someone new to the fandom, it can be hard to get readers, and you guys have helped me out so much. 
> 
> See you (hopefully) Wednesday! 
> 
> Gray // [gallavichy](http://gallavichy.tumblr.com)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey _likes him_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which things are soft and things are also, uh, hard. 
> 
> Warnings for actually-pretty-graphic masturbation this time. 
> 
> I had fun with this one. It's mostly just Mickey and Ian being really embarrassing. Hope you enjoy!

The cereal's really getting out of hand.

Mickey knows, he _knows_ , that Ian's doing it to mess with him, and he gets a warm feeling in his belly whenever he thinks of it—whenever he thinks of Ian taking the time to think of him whenever he's eating. Taking the time to snap a picture and send it to him along with a snarky comment. 

Ian _thinks about him_.

But come on, man. Mickey loves cereal as much as anybody else, but there's no reason to have it for dinner. Eat some Hot Pockets, Pizza Rolls—fuckin' _ramen_ 's even better than a sad ass bowl of Fruity Pebbles.

Ian's tagged him on Instagram again, in a story this time, and Mickey's rolling his eyes even as he watches it over and over because Ian was _thinking about him_.

It's a video of a bowl of cereal with a heart filter and this cheesy, sexy music playing as the shot slowly zooms in. In the bottom left corner, “Dinner of Champions” is written in a pink, swirly font.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (7:17 PM):** You need to eat a meal like a fuckin adult

 **Ian (7:19 PM):** Are you asking me on a date?

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey's breath catches in his lungs. He sputters. Like, what can he even _say_ to that?

He starts to type a few things, including, among others, “Fuck you, Gallagher,” “What is wrong with you,” and “🖕,” but Ian's already responded before he can get anything out and sent.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (7:20 PM):** 😉

 **Ian (7:20 PM):** I can't seem to make a habit of having a well-stocked fridge. Mostly I just pick something up or order out.

 **Ian (7:21 PM):** I do make a mean breakfast, though. I'm the fucking Wolfgang Puck of flipping pancakes and scrambling eggs.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

And really, he won't let Mickey get a word in because before Mickey's able to respond to _that_ , his phone rings.

“Can you take a fuckin' breath or something?” Mickey asks in greeting, bringing his shoulder up to hold his phone to his ear as he puts his own dinner in the microwave: egg rolls, motherfucker.

“Do you cook?” There's a clanging noise on Ian's side, like he's rummaging through his refrigerator for something that's rolled to the back. 

Mickey picks up the frozen packets of duck sauce from the egg roll box and moves over to the sink to thaw them out with hot water from the tap. “No, but I know how to buy groceries and like, boil and microwave shit.”

“Then your judgment is not welcome.”

“Too bad.”

There's a little puff of static, a nose-laugh from Ian, and Mickey bites a grin off his lip as he waits for the water to heat up.

“Hey, by the way,” Ian says after a silent moment, and he sounds like he's smiling.

“Hey.”

“So, if you're gonna continue to judge my dinner, I have a solution.”

Mickey sets the sauce packets at the bottom of the sink and lets the water run over them. “What's that?”

“How 'bout next time I'm about to make a questionable food decision, we FaceTime and you help me make a better choice?”

Something about that sounds vaguely sexual, if only the way Ian says “a better choice,” and Mickey's heart has escaped his ribcage and is climbing its way into his throat. 

Ian must pick up on it pretty quickly, though, because he suddenly adds, “We can like, look through my fridge and cabinets and shit and you can help me whip up something.”

“Or you can go to the grocery store.”

“ _Or_ we can FaceTime like I suggested.”

Mickey can _hear_ the smirk. He rolls his eyes as he squeezes the now-squishy packets of duck sauce and turns off the water. “Whatever, man.”

“Is that a 'yes'?”

Mickey schools his voice because it's not like he can just jump on this like a fuckin' _girl_. “It's a 'whatever.'”

“So, it's a 'yes'...?”

“ _Fine_. Yeah. Whatever.”

“Glad you're so enthused,” Ian says sarcastically, but he's _smiling_. Mickey _knows_ he is because he's got that stupid lilt to his voice.

And _fuck_ , _fuck_ , _fuck_ , Mickey's egg rolls are hot. He nearly burns the prints off his fingertips trying to get them out of the microwave, too distracted by Ian's voice to even think to get a paper towel.

He curses and sucks hard at his fingers, and Ian makes a curious _mmmh?_ noise.

“That was a _weeeeirdly_ sexual sound,” he says, voice making it clear he doesn't _actually_ think Mickey's getting himself off. “What're you doing?”

“Nothing.”

But then Mickey realizes how _that_ sounds, so he tries again: “Burned my fingers. Shut up.”

“Oh, so you _are_ a chef. Good to know my future dinner options are in good hands.”

“Yeah, yeah. Fuck off and eat your Trix.”

And it's not like they have anything to say to each other of importance, but they still somehow find themselves engaged in idle chatter for the entire time it takes Mickey to eat his egg rolls and nurse a beer. They talk about, of all things, early 90s action stars and Jean-Claude Van Damme versus Steven Seagal and who's hotter and who can kick whose ass. 

Then, annoyingly, Ian starts questioning Mickey's opinions on literally fucking _everything_ , explaining why he's wrong even when he's _right_ , goddammit, until eventually Mickey just grumbles, “Fuck you, Gallagher, and your wrong ass opinions,” as he's putting his plate in the sink.

“What, can't take the heat, Milkovich?”

“This ain't even a fuckin' discussion. You're wrong.”

“Sure, bitch.” 

“I'm done talking about this with you. You're just bein' a dick, and you know good and well that I'm right.”

“Milkovich can't _handle_ the truth.”

“Gallagher can suck a dick.”

“ _Yeah_ , he can!” Ian announces triumphantly.

And Milkovich wants to launch himself into the sun.

“Shut the fuck up,” he says, but his voice is gentler than he wants it to be, and he thinks Ian knows he's blushing like a stupid twelve-year-old with a crush.

Ian _laughs_ , and it makes Mickey's heart leap.

“Yeah, yeah,” he murmurs, taking a large pull off his beer.

There's a moment of silence followed by the squeaking sound of Ian sucking at his lips, and he's _thinking_ , Mickey knows. He visualizes the countdown before a subject-changing question is asked: 

Five. Four. Three. Two.

“So, you're gonna FaceTime with me?”

Mickey sighs. Runs his thumb up and down the side of his beer bottle, idly scratching at the label with his nail. “Said I would.”

“Cool.”

And everything feels so awkward, so _off_ after fifteen minutes of comfortable banter, that Mickey has to say _something_.

“But only if you do it in women's underwear,” he says, referencing one of Ian's clients' constant desires to see him do various dirty, dirty things with a pair of red, lacy panties.

Ian snorts, and Mickey's mouth stretches in a wide grin. “Did I tell you he had me cut a hole in them so I could stick my dick through?” He swallows, clearly drinking something. “And like, he was tellin' me stuff to do with them, so by the end of the session, they were _completely_ destroyed. And I can fuckin' guarantee he's gonna want me to get another pair.”

“Go with blue this time.”

“Mm. Exactly what I was thinking. Combined with my hair, there was just too much red goin' on before.”

They laugh together, and it's easy again. Mickey spins his beer bottle on the table once, twice, and then takes another sip.

“Hey, Mickey?”

He raises his eyebrows in response before remembering he's gonna have to say something. “Yeah.”

“You know you can like, ask me for stuff, right?”

Mickey's heart pounds, that _thump-thump_ that threatens to escape his chest cavity. “The fuck you talkin' about?”

Ian's quiet for a minute, but then he answers in a gentle voice, like he's speaking to an easily-startled cat. “I know I complain to you about my clients, but it's mostly just for fun, or I'm venting about some of the assholes.” There's a pause while he takes a drink and swallows heavily. “But I don't want you to think that I'm not _into_ doin' stuff or that I wouldn't wanna like, do it for you or whatever if you wanted.”

Mickey blows out an audible breath before he has a chance to consider the fact that Ian can actually hear him. 

His stomach is in _knots_ , all twisted and tied, and he feels like he has to breathe with an open mouth to get enough oxygen.

“M'not gonna ask you to wear frilly fuckin' lingerie,” he murmurs, then bites hard on his lip.

Ian huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I figured.” 

There's a pause. 

“But, y'know. Like, no pressure or anything. I'm completely fine with exchanging shirtless pictures and seeing Jovi. I just.” He takes a drink. “Just wanted to make sure there's not something that you like, _want_ , and you don't feel like you can ask 'cause I've been kind of a dick about my clients.”

It's Mickey's turn now to suck on his lips, thinking. 

“Like what?” he finally gets out after a wholly silent minute, pushing back from his little two-seater kitchen table and moving over to the fridge for another beer.

“Mm. I mean, do you want like, a menu?” Mickey can hear the grin in Ian's voice.

He can also hear _nerves_ , which is unusual.

“Dunno, man,” he says, pulling a bottle from the fridge, pausing, and then grabbing another before bumping the door closed with his shin and crossing over to the living room. He drops down on the couch and sighs. “Whatever you wanna do.”

“ _Well_. I dunno. I still don't really know what you're into.” When Mickey doesn't respond, Ian continues. “But okay.”

There's a noise like he's doing exactly what Mickey just did moments before—standing up from a table, grabbing something to drink, and moving to get settled in a different location.

“There's. I mean, there's masturbation stuff.” And he sounds so _anxious_ , almost shy about it, which sends Mickey reeling for a minute because _why would he_? This is what he fucking _does_. “I could like, do stuff and take pictures or like, video it, or...”

Mickey isn't responding—mostly because he's smoking, now, taking turns puffing away and drinking his beer—and it's clearly making Ian more nervous.

“If you have like, requests of stuff you want me to do or say. Or. How you want me to _dress_.” He blows a breath into the phone. “Or I could like, send you dick pics. If the masturbation stuff's kind of a lot for now.” 

After a pause, he laughs, seeming unsure of himself, and murmurs, “Can you fuckin' say something?”

Mickey takes a deep breath. “Yeah.”

“ _Yeah_ , you can say something? Or _yeah_ , you want something that I mentioned?”

“I guess you can, uh.” Mickey sets his cigarette in the ashtray so he can concentrate, then rubs his hand over his face. “The dick stuff. Like, the pictures.”

“Yeah?”

“But like, nothin' crazy, man.”

“So just basically me. Naked.”

“I don't fuckin' know. Yeah.” Mickey pulls his legs up on the couch and grabs at them, looping one arm around as he snatches up his cigarette again and takes a low, slow drag. “That's. Fine,” he breathes out along with the smoke.

Ian laughs a little, a breathy thing, and asks, “Why's this so fuckin' awkward?” He snorts. “I literally do this every day.”

Mickey doesn't answer because he's busy smoking and thinking about Ian's dick.

“Anyway.” Ian breaks into a laugh again. “I will. Do that. I'm gonna send you a dick pic, okay?”

Mickey breathes in—hard—through his nose, then quickly puffs the air back out. “Okay.”

“Okay. I'm gonna hang up.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Bye.”

 _It's the most awkward fucking thing in the world._

Mickey hangs up his phone and bends his neck, pressing his face into his kneecap and just _groaning_. Because _Jesus Christ_ , what the hell is he even doing?

He leans back after a minute and, after a long drink of his beer, stretches out on the couch and finishes his cigarette while he thinks about the fact that he's about to see Ian's dick. 

And the thing is, there's literally nothing else he can _possibly_ do in Ian's eyes but jerk off to it.

He's gonna jerk off tonight until he's raw, probably, and Ian _knows_ that. And right now, he's most likely got his pants down, taking his picture, and Mickey feels _weak_.

\---

Nearly ten minutes later, the picture comes in, and Mickey doesn't know what he was expecting. His brain had sort of conjured up every iteration of a dick pic that could possibly be sent, with none seeming more likely than the other.

But all he can think right now when he sees the picture is that he is just so fucking _into_ Ian Gallagher than he can't stand it.

Because Ian could have sent any number of different poses, angles, and, well, _states_ , but when Mickey looks at Ian's dick, he knows that Ian _thought about him_ when he took the picture. He considered what he'd asked for, what he's kind of _like_ , right now, and the sheer idea of it makes Mickey bite down on his own tongue.

It's a mirror shot, and all Ian's done is pull his boxers down enough to get it out. And the thing about it is that he's _soft_ and beautiful, and it's exactly what he said and exactly what Mickey wanted for now. Just him. Naked.

It's making Mickey _sweat_. 

And as he looks at the fuzzy ginger hair beneath Ian's navel—that hair he's been staring at for weeks in the low-riding boxers photo—and sees where it ends, as a thicker thatch of deep red hair at the base of Ian's dick, and as he sees how fucking _huge_ he is, even soft, and how it's the most perfect dick Mickey's seen in his life, all pink and _fuck_ —there are _freckles_ , just smatterings of pin-prick constellations over the surface, and... 

And as he looks at these, and as he saves the photo and zooms in, looking at every single bit of skin and hair, he just thinks how fucking pretty he is. And he feels stupid as fuck, like a dumbass kid with a crush, but he also thinks about how he wants to see his face, too.

He's getting hard in his shorts, and he knows he could come with only a good thirty-second mid-speed stroke, but he just keeps looking and looking and _looking_.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (8:19 PM):** 🤨

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey doesn't even know how to respond. He taps his fingers against the sides of his phone case and breathes steadily out his mouth. 

Finally, he just murmurs, “fuck it,” and opens up the emoji keyboard.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (8:23 PM):** 👍

 **Ian (8:23 PM):** 😂😂

 **Mickey (8:24 PM):** 🖕

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Ian fucking _calls him_ again after that, and Mickey rubs his thumb back and forth over his bottom lip for a minute before answering.

And the thing is, Ian's just _giggling_ and giggling.

“ _What_?” Mickey asks, lips stretching into a smile despite himself.

“ _Mickey_ ,” Ian says, and he sounds so fucking _fond_ and _soft_ , and then he just laughs, and there's the squeak of bedsprings like he's just dropped backward onto his bed.

“You fuckin' high right now?”

“No, it's just.” He controls himself for a moment but then, after a pause, snorts again, like he just needs to take a minute to have a hard, system-clearing laugh. “It's just you.”

“The fuck's that even mean?” And the smiles are getting into _Mickey's_ voice, now, he knows, he _knows_ , as he can fuckin' hear it—that stupid, happy bubble working its way into his throat.

Ian doesn't answer, just _smiles_ , Mickey _knows_ , and quickly asks, “What'd you think?”

For a second, Mickey considers hanging up on him, and he knows that if they were texting, this would be the moment when he'd write “I'm out” and stop messaging Ian for twenty minutes while he smiled and watched him send a series of increasingly-ridiculous emojis.

“ _Mickey_ ,” Ian prompts because, well, Mickey's kind of forgotten to respond. “Was it like, too much? Not enough? Not _sexy_ enough? Give me _somethin'_ , bitch. I've got a fuckin' ego to maintain, here.”

Mickey outright _laughs_ at that, and _fuck_ , he can't believe himself. 

“It was...” he starts, reaching back to grab blindly for the beer he has sitting on the end table. “I dunno, man. It was...good. You're.” He flits his eyes to the side, back and forth. “Big.”

 _Fuck_.

Ian just _loses his shit_ at that, and for a full two minutes, there's nothing but rolling laughter.

“Fuck you, man,” Mickey says, and he's blushing so hard he feels the heat in his eyes.

And this is all stupid as fuck and _embarrassing_ , but he just feels happy and a little _drunk_ , even, but he's not—not even close—and Ian's laughing and happy, too, and well.

“Send me a picture of your face,” Mickey says, and that's just the thing, isn't it? 

“Oh yeah?” There's breath sounds, then, happy ones, like air pushed out through a smile, and then Ian says, gently, “If you send me one of yours.”

They hang up without goodbyes this time, and Mickey tap-tap-taps his fingers against the sides of his phone and waits.

\---

The picture Ian sends is immediately Mickey's favorite. He's sitting on his bed, a slatted headboard behind him, and he's all pink-cheeked with a flush, and he's got his mouth open like he's mid-laugh, teeth shining, eyes shining, freckles on display.

Mickey takes a dumb picture of himself, twisting his mouth a bit for it and holding up his middle finger. 

And he waits and waits and _waits_ for Ian to respond.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (8:42 PM):** You sent a live photo. Did you know?

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

A _what_?

 _Fuck_.

Mickey pulls up the picture and holds his thumb on it, watching what he just sent Ian. And, whatever. _Fuck it_. It shows him, blushing like a fuckin' giggling kid, pulling his face for the photo, then relaxing out of it into a wide grin, showing off all his teeth and squinting his eyes with it, even, and... 

_Goddammit_ , Ian's gonna fucking _know_.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (8:44 PM):** Whatever, man

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Except it isn't “whatever” because Ian sends something now that Mickey can't justify, can't explain away.

Jovi ain't even in the fuckin' room, this time.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (8:44 PM):** 😍

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey doesn't know what to say to that, so he doesn't say anything.

He wonders, after several minutes, if he _should_ send him something, though, because, well, was Ian taking a _risk_ , here? What _is_ this? What are they doing?

What the fuck _can he possibly_ say to that?

But at nearly ten, when Mickey's listening to music and washing his dish from dinner, mind working overtime, he gets a notification that Ian's tagged him in another story post.

And _goddammit_ , it's another one of those pink-heart-sexy-music videos, but this time it's the _Double Impact_ DVD cover, and the video zooms in on Van Damme's face.

Mickey rolls his eyes even though he's grinning so hard his fuckin' face hurts and taps the button to send Ian a direct message.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **mickm7189**  
🖕🖕🖕

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

\---

While Mickey doesn't usually give a shit about “considerate”—being it, himself, or caring if others are—he realizes fairly quickly that Ian is considerate as fuck when it comes to sharing dick pics.

He never sends them without asking first which, in part, is _worse_ because now Mickey has to say “yes” when asked if he wants them.

He neither asks nor pressures Mickey into sending one back.

And finally, he sends the absolute hottest yet still somehow _tasteful_ pictures that are somehow exactly matched to Mickey's comfort level at any given time.

Over the course of two weeks, Ian sends, in addition to his almost-daily selfies and random pictures, three nudes:

The first is him just out of the shower, standing in front of a mirror that reveals his body from right below his hips and up. His hair is damp and tousled, nipples are hard, and his pubes, which frame his fuckin' beautiful cock, are mussed like he's just run a towel over himself. 

In the second, another mirror shot, Ian's got on those same burgundy boxers that he wore in the cereal pictures, and they're pulled down to the top of his thighs. He's turned slightly to the side—just enough that Mickey can see the barest shape of his ass—and he's got his hand resting flat against his lower stomach, right on that patch of fuzz beneath his navel. There are pink imprints on his hips from the waistband of his boxers, and for some reason, that's hot as fuck to Mickey. 

But not hotter than Ian's dick, which _maybe_ , just maybe, is a little plump, like he's in the very early stages of arousal.

Mickey leans over his bathroom sink for that one, propping the phone up on the ledge beneath the mirror and stroking himself hard and fast until he comes in two minutes flat. And he's red-faced and panting as he grabs a wad of toilet paper and wipes up the streaks of come he's gotten on the floor and on one of the exposed sink pipes, but _fuck_ , is he ready to do it again.

But see, the last one, _the last one_ sends him for a fuckin' loop—makes him horny in the _worst_ , almost adolescent way—because Ian's got his fuckin' hand on his cock like he's about to stroke it.

This one is the only one taken from Ian's point of view, like he just reached down, grabbed his dick, and took a picture of it.

He isn't _hard_ per say, but _goddammit_ , he will be. He's got his four fingers on the underside, and his thumb's lying along the top, just under the lip of the head, and Mickey can see the fucking slit and all the freckles and the lazy vein running alongside that he knows will be more pronounced when Ian's fully erect.

And Mickey _usually_ replies to these pictures right away. Never with anything overtly sexual or _revealing_ ; sometimes with a thumbs up, sometimes with a sarcastic comment. But after receiving this one, he doesn't say anything at all, and his face goes red, skin heated, when Ian sends a smirking emoji like he just _knows_.

But fuck it. So what?

Mickey just lets Ian _know_. 

He takes his phone into his bedroom, gets completely naked, and lies back on his bed. And fuck if he doesn't rub at his nipples and scratch at his thighs as he jerks off, barely even needing more than a half-assed squirt of lube he's leaking so much—more than usual, pretty much more than ever.

He watches his dick a little, this time, and he bends his legs at the knees, feet flat against the bed, and tries to hold his phone between his thighs so he can use both hands to his advantage. He watches his dick because, well, even that can be a little hot, and he thinks about Ian and Ian's cock and as he watches the pre-come drip from him like a fuckin' faucet, as he rubs it around the head with his thumb, he wonders about him.

Is _Ian_ a leaker? 

What's he like when he's really turned on? Not that client shit, that twenty-minute jerk-off session to the sound of a geriatric viagroid telling him what to do. No. What's he like when he's fucking _into_ something, some _one_ , and he's so, so turned on he doesn't know what to do—he can't fuckin' _stand it_?

What are his body's responses to arousal? Does he get splotchy—Mickey bets he does—flushed? Does he get a wet patch in his underwear? Do his nipples get hard? Does his breathing pick up?

Mickey has to close his eyes and press his head back into his pillow, thighs still clamped around the phone but screen off from not having been touched, hand working at himself furiously, furiously, then slower, slower, taking a minute to rub at that spot under the head where it's sticky and slippery from the steady stream of wetness.

He bites his lip and breathes out his nose in heavy, heavy pants that start to stutter when he's close. And _fuck_ , he thinks about Ian on the edge of orgasm—thinks about his dick and his pre-come and his hard nipples but also his _face_ and his _mouth_ and the _sounds_ he might make. Does he breathe hard, hard, heavy, heavy like Mickey? Does he bite his bottom lip and make this whimper sound when the tingles start, when his belly gets warm and his balls get tight?

Mickey gets one hand up to idly rub against one nipple, then the other, and he releases his bottom lip from his teeth so he can breathe out his mouth, too worked up to do anything else. 

He's groaning a little, and he thinks about come spurting from Ian's dick, getting on his belly and in those beautiful, ginger hairs under his navel, and finally, he loses it because it's there, and he's coming, and Mickey murmurs, “Oh, fuck” when it hits.

He squeezes his eyes hard as the waves hit him, over and over, and he thinks of Ian having an orgasm, Ian being _inside_ of him, and he strokes and rubs his thumb over the head of his cock as he thinks about Ian coming _in_ him and on him and it's all he can do to wrench his hand away from himself when he starts to shake afterward, his thighs jerking almost comically hard, the phone falling down onto the bed.

 _Goddamn_.

Mickey lies back and _pants_.

He's come all over himself, and he's even got a streak trailing up and skimming his sternum.

Idly, he runs his hand through it because he's gonna have to shower anyway, and it's just as he's sliding his fingertips around in the pool of ejaculate on his lower stomach that he gets a text from Ian.

And he's _embarrassed_ , sort of, because it feels like he's been caught at something dirty. 

He leans over the side of his bed, hurriedly grabs his boxers, and wipes off his hand and stomach. Then, he wiggles around and picks up his phone from where it's currently lodged between the mattress and his left ass cheek.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (9:04 PM):** Was that one okay?

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey _laughs_.

He laughs and laughs and his mouth's still holding that happy grin when he texts back.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (9:05 PM):** Stop fishing for compliments bitch, you know it was.

 **Ian (9:05 PM):** 😲 How dare you accuse me of such things.

 **Mickey (9:06 PM):** Uh huh

 **Ian (9:06 PM):** 😇

 **Mickey (9:06 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (9:07 PM):** Well, when you send a guy a picture of a sensitive part of your anatomy, you hope he's at least into it.

 **Mickey (9:07 PM):** 🙄 5 out of 5 stars. Leave me alone.

 **Ian (9:07 PM):** 😏

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

\---

Mickey doesn't send a _dick pic_ to Ian.

But that Friday, in response to a rather risqué post-running photo in which Ian is basically showin' off his pubes, he's got his shorts pulled down so low, Mickey decides to poke some fun.

He's been running himself, you see, and even though he ran three miles to probably Ian's eight, he's still sweaty and flushed and loaded up with happy endorphins that make him a little reckless, a little brave.

So, _fuck it_ , he takes off his sleeveless t-shirt and pulls his running shorts down just _an inch_ too much. 

He really doesn't have much by way of body hair—his chest hair thin and his treasure trail nothing but a faint, fuzzy shadow—but he's got his shorts down far enough that you can _maybe_ see the beginnings of some thicker hair at his waistband, just a sliver of pubes, only visible if you zoom in.

He takes the picture in front of his full-length mirror, complete with his signature middle finger, and after putting on the Vivid filter, which makes his skin bright and nipples and lips extra pink, sends it to Ian.

\---

After a minute, Ian sends back a thumbs up emoji, which makes Mickey roll his eyes and laugh because okay, Gallagher. Touché. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (6:13 PM):** 😉

 **Mickey (6:15 PM):** Do you really wear your fuckin shorts like this

 **Ian (6:15 PM):** Only when I'm taking hot pictures for strange men I text.

 **Mickey (6:16 PM):** So like does your ego have its own zip code or what

 **Ian (6:17 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (6:18 PM):** Are you saying that my pictures aren't hot?

 **Mickey (6:20 PM):** Fuck you's what I'm saying

 **Ian (6:21 PM):** It's okay, Mickey.

 **Ian (6:21 PM):** I think your pictures are hot, too.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

 _Goddammit_.

Mickey sends Ian four middle-finger emojis, but afterward, he has to push his palms against his eyes and bite the hell out of his bottom lip to hold back a grin.

\---

Things are changing for them—have been since the first dick pic—and what used to be text threads of Mickey pretending Ian was a pain in the ass, then text threads of earnest, playful conversations, is now pretty unabashed flirting.

Mickey's not sure he's ever flirted with anyone before, so he's maybe not _a thousand_ percent sure this is what it is, but sometimes he'll just be texting Ian and will think, “Ian fucking _knows_ , and I'm making it so fucking obvious.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (7:54 PM):** So on a scale from 1-10, how satisfied would you say you are with the app?

 **Mickey (7:55 PM):** App 5/10, my match 1/10

 **Ian (7:56 PM):** Oh, see, I should've explained. The scale is from unsatisfied to satisfied, not the other way around. So I'll put you down as a 10/10 for match satisfaction?

 **Mickey (7:56 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (7:57 PM):** Hell, 11/10? We're really going that high?

 **Mickey (7:57 PM):** I changed my mind. 0/10 

**Ian (7:58 PM):** Goddammit, Mickey. How many times do I have to explain to you the way the scale works?

 **Mickey (7:58 PM):** Fuck off

 **Mickey (7:59 PM):** Is this a real survey

 **Ian (7:59 PM):** Nah. Just wanted to talk to you.

 **Mickey (8:00 PM):** I stand by my rating though.

 **Ian (8:01 PM):** Come oooon, Mickey. 11/10? Really?

 **Ian (8:01 PM):** I mean, I like you a lot, too, but 11/10's a little excessive.

 **Ian (8:01 PM):** 😏

 **Mickey (8:02 PM):** On a scale from 1-10 how annoying do you think you are? 

**Mickey (8:02 PM):** Just checking your self awareness

 **Ian (8:03 PM):** Your scale or my scale?

 **Mickey (8:03 PM):** Well that answers that question 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

There's a few minutes of silence. Mickey rereads their conversation and smiles.

Stupid ginger fucker.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (8:10 PM):** Knock knock, bitch. I'm about to make a bad dinner decision.

 **Ian (8:10 PM):** You good to FaceTime?

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

 _Fuck_.

Mickey _launches_ himself off his bed, where he'd been lounging around as they texted. 

_Goddammit_ , Gallagher.

He quickly moves off to the bathroom, where he pulls on a navy t-shirt from the laundry basket that's a little damp from the bath towel that's been on top of it and smells like stale body odor. He then walks over to the mirror and stares at himself. Runs his fingers through his hair. And his face is a little greasy looking, so he splashes water on it and dries it on the front of his shirt.

Whatever.

He goes into the living room and drops down on the couch.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (8:14 PM):** Yeah, I guess

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

His stomach is in fucking _knots_.

They've sent thousands of texts, exchanged three months worth of pictures, and by now, have talked on the phone for probably a collective five hours in several twenty to thirty minute here-and-there snatches.

But they've never _looked at each other_ while they spoke.

With texting, you don't know what the other looks like or sounds like. With phone calls, you can guess but you can't see the blushing or the grinning. But fuck, there ain't no hiding on FaceTime.

\---

Ian's FaceTime request comes in at 8:20, and Mickey takes a deep, shaky breath and answers.

And really, he doesn't think he's ever felt the way he feels when he sees Ian's face.

“Guess who's two seconds away from a bowl of Cap'n Crunch?” Ian's saying _immediately_ , as soon as Mickey accepts the call.

Mickey just stares at him.

“And like, I don't _actually_ know what my other options are 'cause I haven't been to Jewel in like three weeks, so.”

He's moving around his fucking kitchen like Mickey isn't even there, pulling open random cabinets to reveal the utter _mess_ of shit inside, like someone's stuffed in random kitchen crap with no sense of organization.

But then, upon hearing Mickey's silence, he stops. He apparently sets down his phone on the counter, propping it up on something, and bends so that he's staring into the screen, elbows to the countertop. 

He smiles.

“Hey, Mickey.” 

Mickey raises his eyebrows and takes a deep breath. “Gallagher.”

And they just stare at each other for a minute.

“You're real,” Ian finally says, and he's so beautiful Mickey wants to hang up the phone and he also wants to stare at him forever.

He scoffs after a moment and grumbles, “You think I wasn't?”

His face twists up, and Mickey knows he's about to be snarky. “Well, I considered the fact that you _might_ be catfishing me for like, two seconds, but really, what catfish would spend _so_ much time pretending to be a grumpy asshole?”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Fuck you, too.”

They grin at each other.

“So, show me what ya got,” Mickey insists after their staring begins to get a little awkward.

Ian pushes back from the counter and, bringing the phone with him, takes Mickey on a tour of his kitchen.

The kid ain't got shit in his fridge or cabinets.

“What're you doin' with yourself, man?” Mickey asks, getting up off the couch to grab a beer. “Go to the fuckin' grocery store!”

“Yeah, thanks, bitch, but I'm either at work or asleep or talking to your ass every minute of the day.”

“Nah, _nah_ , you get days off, man. You do 2-2-3. You told me that shit.”

Ian brings the phone up to his face and _smiles_. “You remembered my schedule?”

“Fuck you's what I remembered. You're hopeless. Order a fuckin' pizza. That's the better choice I'm helping you make.”

“Look, I've _got_ the fuckin' Cap'n Crunch.”

Mickey pulls open the refrigerator and grabs two bottles of Old Style. He twists the cap off one and holds the other under his arm. “If you eat cereal, I'm hangin' up on your ass.”

“So tell me what kind of pizza to get.”

“What d'ya like?” 

Ian turns the phone toward his face and takes a deep breath before slowly breathing it out his nose. “Mmm. Cheese, I guess.”

“Ding, ding. We have a winner. Make the fuckin' call.”

Ian smiles at him, this wide, closed-mouthed smile that makes him look like that fuckin' kid in the Kash and Grab with the heavy, as-yet-unfaded freckles and the stupid bangs. He props up the phone on the counter again, and Mickey drinks his beer and watches him pull another phone from his pocket—an iPhone with a gray case—and make the call.

And he'd forgotten, really, that he's been talking to Ian on a work-issued cell phone this entire time. Forgotten that he doesn't actually even have his number.

It makes something sour settle in his stomach, even as he watches Ian gesture with his hands as he talks, as he watches him smile at Mickey when he turns and glances down at him.

“One cheese pizza, comin' up,” Ian announces after hanging up the phone and stuffing it back in the pocket of his jeans.

\---

They engage in idle chatter while they wait on Ian's pizza to arrive, Ian hunched over again with his elbows on the countertop. At some point, he decides to give Mickey a tour of his little apartment and carries him around to the different rooms, speaking as if he's a celebrity showing off his mansion.

“And here you'll see the _lovely_ two-in-one bath and shower that only leaks _sometimes_ ,” he says, bringing Mickey into his bathroom, which is clean from a sanitation perspective but messy as _fuck_ , with towels on the floor and random shit all over the counter.

He saves his bedroom for last, apparently. It's small but cozy, with a surprisingly nice full-sized bed with hunter green bedding that's made up in a half-assed fashion. The comforter's pulled up, but Mickey can tell the sheets are disheveled underneath.

He has a forty-two inch flat screen mounted on the wall opposite, and awkwardly, a tripod with an iPhone mount sits on the floor under it.

There's an open Acer laptop on his bed, and Ian closes it and pushes it to the side so he can sit.

“So this is where the magic happens,” he says with a smirk, falling backward into the pillows and holding the phone up above his face.

“Ah,” Mickey says, stretching out on the couch, himself. “Where you blow your load for eighty-year-olds, you mean.”

Ian smiles, and he looks _fond_. “Yeah, yeah. Usually not on the bed, though. I have a futon mattress that I put on the floor.” He rolls his eyes. “Easier to clean. Less...weird, I guess.”

“The drool stains on your pillow probably wouldn't be good for business, either,” Mickey says, smirking.

“Fuck you.” Ian does lift his head, though, and he snorts at the circular saliva stain on the pillow he'd been resting on. He shrugs and lies back down. “Nah,” he says, taking a deep breath. “This bed's for real sex only.”

Mickey flushes a little—he _knows_ he does. Can feel it.

There's quiet for a moment, and Mickey breathes, steeling himself, and he _can't fucking believe_ he's going to ask this, but:

“So, you got like a boyfr--”

And at that moment, for better or worse, there's a loud knocking coming from Ian's end.

“Pizza guy,” he announces, hopping up off the bed. “Let me like, get this shit and I'll call you back.”

Mickey sets his phone on his chest and presses his palms to his eyes.

\---

Ian FaceTimes him again about fifteen minutes later, and he has the phone propped up on a small dinner table where he sits with a paper plate and a bottle of Lemon-Lime Gatorade. The pizza box sits to his left, and when Mickey connects, he's pulling out a couple pieces and arranging them on his plate.

They chat while Ian eats, and Mickey's treated to the sight of the motherfucker taking _ginormous_ bites—like a third of the slice in one bite—and talking with his mouth full.

They talk about how Ian's _sort of_ trying to stop smoking because he's working on being healthier, and then Mickey shows off Jovi, who comes to curl up on his chest. Then they talk about music, and at one point, Ian pulls his real phone out of his pocket and raps along with the the first part of “X Gon' Give It To Ya,” and he's so stupidly serious about it that Mickey wishes he could've recorded that, somehow.

“Thank you, thank you,” Ian gestures in a bowing motion after pausing Spotify. “Glad you enjoyed my talents.”

“Did I _say_ I enjoyed your talents?”

Ian screws up his face so that he appears affronted. “You didn't say you _didn't_ , and that's high praise from you, Milkovich.”

Mickey smirks.

Ian groans, leaning backward in his chair and placing his hands on his stomach. “I just ate an entire pizza by myself.”

“Bet it was better than your Cap'n Crunch.”

Ian makes an “ _ehh_ ” face and holds out his hand, tilting it from side to side. 

Mickey flips him off.

“We need to do this again,” Ian says, standing up from the table and collecting the plate and pizza box. “Next time, though, you're eating, too. Gotta say it was a little awkward devouring approximately three thousand calories while you stroked your cat like a supervillain.”

“Don't say _stroked your cat_.”

Ian's walked off somewhere else in the kitchen, but Mickey can hear him laughing.

There's a trilling noise in the middle of it—the sound of the phone vibrating against whatever it's propped up on.

After a minute, Ian pops back in frame and reaches over to grab the phone. Mickey smiles as he watches him, and the video freezes as he apparently minimizes FaceTime to text a response.

“Fuck,” he says, the video unpausing to reveal him looking apologetic. “I gotta go.”

Mickey tries not to look disappointed. “Client?”

Ian nods. “He's scheduled for ten-thirty, but he's got some...special requests, so I probably need to get ready.”

“Got it. Probably shouldn't have eaten that whole pizza, then.”

“Mm.” Ian laughs a little, breathily, and takes a drink of his Gatorade. “Probably not, but. Whatever.”

“Alright. Go do your...thing,” Mickey says after a moment of awkward silence, reaching to the end table for his second beer. 

“Thanks again. This was fun.”

Mickey nods and twists off the bottle cap. He takes a long pull. Swallows. “See ya.”

“Bye, Mickey.”

\---

When ten-thirty rolls around, Mickey's taking a shower before bed.

And he's shampooing his hair, soaping up his body, when he wonders what Ian's doing. 

Ian hadn't elaborated on the client, but he has four that he currently videos with on a regular, scheduled basis: The Panties Guy, The Come Guy—known by Mickey as The Asshole—The Crying Guy, so called because he cries when he orgasms, and finally, The Professor, who has Ian dress in UIC gear and enjoys “instructing” him on how to touch himself.

Mickey wonders if Ian has a nickname for _him_ , and he flushes when he thinks of it.

 _Fuck_ , Mickey likes him.

And he knows that he's a client, he _knows_ that, but Ian _talks_ to him and _smiles_ at him, and it's easy to fuckin' _hope_.

After his shower, Mickey watches TV for a while before heading to bed, and he can't stop thinking about Ian. 

And it isn't a sex thing like it sometimes is, when Mickey's horny in bed and reaching a hand around himself as he thinks about him. It's a thing where Mickey just wants _more_. He wants to look at him, and he wants to talk to him, and he wants to be able to ask him what he's doing at any minute of the day and have it not be weird and invasive.

He sneaks a peek at the clock and it's nearly midnight, now, and he wonders what he's _doing_. Is he showering or putting his outfit and mattress cover in the washing machine? Is he smoking even though he's trying to quit? Drinking the rest of that Gatorade? Taking some time for himself? Listening to music?

Did his client treat him well?

Biting his lip, Mickey takes his phone off the charger and pulls up their text thread. He taps his fingers against the sides of his phone case, then types out a message three times, deleting it twice before finally submitting it.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (11:51 PM):** Everything go ok?

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

He doesn't reply for a while, and Mickey just assumes he's asleep or otherwise occupied. He sets his phone on his pillow and turns over, trying to sleep.

There's a _ding_ about twenty minutes later, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't wide awake, waiting.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (12:12 AM):** All good. 👍

 **Ian (12:12 AM):** Thanks for asking.

 **Mickey (12:13 AM):** Yep

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

There are several minutes of silence. Mickey's about to say goodnight when Ian texts again.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (12:19 AM):** I wasn't just fucking around earlier. We should FaceTime again soon.

 **Mickey (12:20 AM):** Yeah

 **Ian (12:21 AM):** I like seeing your face when I talk to you.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey's heart stutters. Skips a beat.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (12:21 AM):** Yeah yeah

 **Ian (12:22 AM):** You blush a lot more than I thought you would.

 **Mickey (12:23 AM):** Fuck off. Go to sleep

 **Ian (12:23 AM):** You smile more.

 **Mickey (12:23 AM):** Bye

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

There's nothing lighting the room but the blue numbers on his digital alarm clock and his phone screen, but Mickey knows that he's red-faced—can feel the heat of his skin.

 _Fuck_. What is this?

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (12:24 AM):** You don't have permission to leave, bitch. I'm not done talking to you.

 **Ian (12:26 AM):** Mickey.

 **Ian (12:27 AM):** I have one last thing to say, and then I'll let you leave.

 **Ian (12:27 AM):** But you gotta respond before I say it.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Oh, fuck _off_ , Gallagher.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (12:29 AM):** What

 **Ian (12:29 AM):** Hey.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey rolls his eyes and, even though it's just _him_ in the fuckin' room, him in the fuckin' apartment, he still grumbles, still pretends like he's done talking to Ian for the night, like he's gonna go to sleep.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (12:31 AM):** I don't, by the way.

 **Mickey (12:32 AM):** ???

 **Ian (12:32 AM):** Have a boyfriend.

 **Ian (12:33 AM):** You were asking me before the pizza guy came.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

And as much as Mickey may try to hold it back, he can't help the surge of energy in his body, the light in his chest, the smile on his mouth.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (12:34 AM):** Congratulations?

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

But he's nothing if not awkward as fuck.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (12:35 AM):** 😂😂

 **Ian (12:35 AM):** Night, Mick.

 **Mickey (12:36 AM):** Night.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

And if he laughs, and if he grins, and if he can't sleep because he's too _happy_ , well, who fuckin' cares. Who fuckin' cares at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aren't they _embarrassing_?!?! 🙈
> 
> Some fun facts for Chapter 5  
> -In my search history after writing this chapter: “Do redheads have freckles on their penis?”
> 
> -It was The Professor, and he wanted Ian to paint himself with the school colors. I originally had him tell Mickey, who thought it was hilarious, but I changed it last second because it messed with the tone of their late-night texting session. Also, it was ridiculous.
> 
> -Ian works 2-2-3, which basically means on two, off two, on three for the first week; for the second week, he'll be off two, on two, off three, and then it repeats. I have him mostly working day shifts, which is why there's very little communication going on throughout the day, but he does occasionally work nights.
> 
> -I've been informed by several commenters that Ian does, in fact, wear boxer briefs once in season eight. So boxer briefs he shall wear. Yaaa! Thank you!
> 
> I love you all. Thank you so much for the continued support; it means the world to me that you're having fun with this! I _hope_ to have the next chapter finished in time for Saturday, but I'm not promising this time. They're gonna have some ~CONVERSATIONS, and I think it might take me longer to write. But! It shouldn't take me more than a day or two longer than usual to get it done, if that. We'll see.
> 
> Thanks, guys! <33
> 
> Gray // [gallavichy](gallavichy.tumblr.com)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian opens up. Mickey gets worried. Conversations are had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Mickey freaks out just _one more time_ , guys.
> 
> Warnings for bipolar-related discussions, including a very brief mention of potential non-consensual relations in the past. Also warnings for Mickey being an oblivious idiot for a good chunk of this.
> 
> This was so hard to write. The tone's a little different from the others, as more serious conversations are had, and I think that gave me a brain block. There are parts of this I love and parts of this I don't, but overall, I'm happy with where we end up. Hope you enjoy.

After their first FaceTime session, things are pretty fucking fantastic.

They don't do it again—or even talk about it, really—but every conversation they have for the next two weeks is loaded with the surprisingly glorious weight of, “We're both real people.” 

And this was something Mickey shied the fuck away from at first, the notion making his guts run a little cold. But now that he's got it, now that he's seen Ian Gallagher eat an entire pizza and walk around his kitchen and stare up at him from the pillow he sleeps on and drools on at night, Mickey just wants nothing but more of it.

He wants to talk to him _all the time_ , and he knows he can't, knows he shouldn't get all up in Ian's probably precious personal time, putting him on the clock for longer than he has to be. More than that, though, he doesn't want Ian to think he's a fuckin' excitable twelve-year-old girl. He doesn't want Ian to think he's like, _obsessed_ with him.

So he _doesn't_ talk to him all the time, and in fact, sometimes he even avoids responding to Ian's texts too quickly because fuck, he's not _desperate_.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (8:11 PM):** Yoooo.

 **Ian (8:34 PM):** Good talk. 👍

 **Ian (8:57 PM):** You alive?

 **Mickey (9:01 PM):** Hey

 **Ian (9:02 PM):** Hey. 

**Ian (9:02 PM):** Ignore my crazy texts. Sorry. 

**Ian (9:03 PM):** Pretend I sent just the one.

 **Mickey (9:03 PM):** Yeah sorry, my phone was on the charger

 **Mickey (9:03 PM):** Sup

 **Ian (9:04 PM):** Just checking in. I bought groceries today.

 **Mickey (9:05 PM):** You didn't buy any more fuckin cereal did you

 **Ian (9:05 PM):** 2 for 1 on Cocoa Puffs, bitch. But I also got some bagged salad kits and some frozen entrees. Figured you'd be proud of me.

 **Mickey (9:06 PM):** Congratulations on being an adult. Tell me where to send your medal

 **Ian (9:06 PM):** I can tell you where to stick it. 🖕

 **Mickey (9:07 PM):** Where, up your ass?

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey cringes at that because, well. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (9:08 PM):** Kinky. 🤨

 **Mickey (9:08 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (9:09 PM):** On a weirdly related note, do you wanna know something funny?

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Ian goes on to tell him about a new client he has—The Insertion Guy—who had Ian to sit, cross-legged, on his little futon mattress and watch him stick random objects up his ass. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (9:14 PM):** There was like, nothing sexual done on my part. I was fully dressed, watching video of this dude stick a Playstation controller up his asshole and thinking about ordering some Chinese food afterward.

 **Ian (9:14 PM):** It was great. He didn't even want me to say anything.

 **Mickey (9:16 PM):** Probably gonna be you next, man

 **Ian (9:17 PM):** No, no, no. The client and I had that conversation beforehand. It's not my favorite, but I'm okay with insertion as long as it's body-safe toys, plugs, or dicks.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

And this is one of those moments when Mickey just wants to _know things_. There are a lot of these moments when they're talking about Ian's other clients, and sometimes Mickey asks, sometimes he doesn't. 

Tonight, he asks.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (9:20 PM):** So like what are your rules for sex stuff? Do you have a list or does it depend on the client or what

 **Ian (9:23 PM):** Both? I have general rules, but then I might make up more for certain clients, depending on how comfortable or uncomfortable I am with them. We usually go over everything when they make their requests for what they want.

 **Ian (9:25 PM):** I told you my role play rules when we first started emailing, but for sex play, I have two sets. For video chat: nothing goes on or in my body unless it was specifically designed for that purpose, spit and semen are the only fluids/excretions I'll produce, and I don't do anything that could even potentially harm me. So no scratching or hitting myself, erotic asphyxiation, etc. 

**Ian (9:27 PM):** And then for in-person sessions, the same rules apply in addition to: no barebacking or unprotected oral, no semen ingestion, no biting, no marks, and no free extras.

 **Ian (9:28 PM):** Oh, and no degradation or humiliation. Fucking hate it. 

**Mickey (9:28 PM):** Do your clients actually try that shit when they're with you

 **Ian (9:29 PM):** Rarely, but I've had it happen. And I mean, it's a kink for some people, which is fine, and the client doesn't always mean it the way I take it, but I just can't pretend to be having fun when I'm being called horrible names.

 **Mickey (9:30 PM):** Do you like having sex with your clients?

 **Ian (9:30 PM):** I like having sex. I mean, I'm not into my clients usually, so it's not the best, most inspired fucking there is. 

**Ian (9:30 PM):** And it's also all about being their fantasy, whatever that is for them, so sometimes it means I'm not getting to do my favorite things. But I get an orgasm out of it most of the time, and orgasms are pretty great. 👍

 **Mickey (9:31 PM):** I dunno, it's kinda weird to me, man. Like would you fuck The Crying Guy?

 **Mickey (9:31 PM):** And like all these saggy old dudes with droopy balls, like you put their dick in your mouth

 **Ian (9:32 PM):** The Crying Guy is the nicest client I've ever had.

 **Ian (9:32 PM):** It's really not that bad, Mickey. Anyway, most of the time, it's them sucking MY dick.

 **Mickey (9:33 PM):** How am I not your nicest client

 **Mickey (9:33 PM):** Don't tell me he's put up with more of your dumb shit than I have

 **Ian (9:34 PM):** 😂

 **Ian (9:34 PM):** Mickey, can you honestly and with a straight face tell me that you think you're nice? 

**Mickey (9:35 PM):** I dunno but you oughta be payin me for listening to you rap DMX, bitch

 **Ian (9:35 PM):** Oh, oh, you can fuck off, BITCH. That is pure talent.

 **Ian (9:36 PM):** And anyway, I just said he was the nicest. You're a bunch of other superlatives.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey's heart stutters. 

He's smoking now, lounging on his bed with his phone held up in the air above his face and a cigarette bobbing between his lips, and he has to take it out of his mouth for a second to get a good breath.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (9:37 PM):** Grumpiest

 **Ian (9:37 PM):** Most infuriating

 **Ian (9:37 PM):** Most unreasonable

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

And he doesn't know what he was expecting, but this is almost better. He puts the cigarette in the ashtray on his nightstand, bites his lip, and watches as the superlatives keep rolling in.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (9:38 PM):** Prettiest cat

 **Ian (9:38 PM):** Most in love with (Slippery When Wet) Jon Bon Jovi 🎸

 **Ian (9:39 PM):** Worst taste in 90s action stars

 **Mickey (9:39 PM):** Yeah yeah, fuck you 🖕

 **Ian (9:39 PM):** Most likely to randomly stop responding to texts

 **Ian (9:39 PM):** Most likely to forget to use punctuation at the end of a sentence

 **Mickey (9:40 PM):** You can stop, asshole

 **Ian (9:40 PM):** Most likely to call me an asshole when he is, in fact, the bigger asshole

 **Ian (9:40 PM):** Worst insta-stalker

 **Mickey (9:41 PM):** Fuck off, I'm leaving

 **Ian (9:41 PM):** Most likely to threaten to leave when really he just sits and watches me flounder because he's a dick

 **Mickey (9:41 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (9:42 PM):** Most likely to overuse the middle finger emoji

 **Mickey (9:42 PM):** 🖕🖕🖕🖕🖕

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey's laughing, okay, and right now he really just wants to see this idiot's face while he's typing. He bends his knees and pulls them up, feet flat to the mattress.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (9:42 PM):** Most Disney-inspired name

 **Ian (9:43 PM):** Worst opinions on cereal

 **Ian (9:43 PM):** Least respected opinion regarding my many musical talents

 **Mickey (9:44 PM):** Ey, you can fuck right off with your musical talents

 **Ian (9:44 PM):** Most ill-tempered

 **Mickey (9:44 PM):** I'll show you ill-tempered

 **Ian (9:44 PM):** Cutest 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Well.

That last one throws him for a loop. 

His face heats, and his palms get all sweaty as he grips his phone in both hands, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.

“Yeah yeah, fuck you,” he sends, smiling like a fool.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (9:45 PM):** Okay, okay. I'm done. 😉

 **Mickey (9:45 PM):** Read back over that shit and tell me I'm not the nicest motherfucker in the world for not callin in a hit on your dumb ass

 **Ian (9:46 PM):** Bitch, have an orgasm and cry while telling me how beautiful I am, then we'll talk. 🚬😎

 **Mickey (9:46 PM):** Nah man, I think your ego's big enough

 **Ian (9:46 PM):** I rest my case.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

He's an annoying fucker.

He is beautiful, though. The Crying Guy's right about that.

\---

The thing about Ian's video clients is that they don't actually rub Mickey the wrong way—mostly because Ian's fuckin' chatty, and he talks an awful fuckin' lot about them to the point that Mickey pretty much knows the dynamic he has with each individual client. 

He knows that Ian tolerates The Panties Guy, who's relatively nice and understanding, even if some of his requests embarrass Ian and push him outside his comfort zone. He knows that he's annoyed by The Come Guy because he's sometimes a dick to him at the end of their sessions, that he finds The Professor agreeable enough but boring to work with, and that he's _amazed_ by The Insertion Guy. And, well, Mickey knows that Ian feels kinda sorry for The Crying Guy but appreciates his sincerity.

Mickey knows all of this because Ian tells him about it, sometimes in graphic detail.

No, Ian's video clients don't really bother Mickey because he knows that Ian doesn't _like_ them. Doesn't care what they do in their day-to-day lives. Doesn't care about anything other than what they want in that scheduled, half-hour period and how best to give it to them.

But Ian _never_ talks about the clients he's fucking. He's never once brought them up, never told Mickey about any sessions, nicknames, how many there are, nothing. 

And Mickey's never asked.

Because really, Mickey isn't bothered by Ian jerking off into a shot glass for a married grandpa. He _doesn't care_ about Ian painting UIC on his belly and then being prompted to smear come all over it. At the end of the day, he doesn't even care about the weird fuck who tells him he loves him, that he's beautiful, and then blubbers like a fuckin' girl. 

He doesn't know how he feels, though, about some dude touching Ian's body, sucking his dick, seeing his face and feeling his breath when he comes, probably, and _fuck_ , Mickey hates himself when he thinks about it because he knows, he _knows_ he shouldn't feel this way.

There is literally no reason whatsoever that Mickey should be even so much as _thinking_ about these things, let alone being _jealous_. Every single one of them, Mickey included, is paying Ian for his services. They're all pathetic fucks in the same pathetic fucking boat on the same pathetic fucking ocean.

And he thinks maybe, _maybe_ Ian likes him the best. He'll concede to that, if only because Ian's sort of said so _without_ saying so, and if only because Mickey's not a fuckin' idiot; Ian tells him shit Mickey _knows_ he doesn't tell his other clients. But that doesn't mean he's _special_.

You might have a favorite fuckin' kid but at the end of the day, they're all your kids—all just mouths to feed.

But whatever. These are things Mickey knows he has to get over. These are things he thinks about for five minutes after he's jerked off to a new dick pic or after he's liked one of Ian's Instagram photos or after he gets a random, unprompted text from him at one in the morning. 

It's a constant push and pull—an hour of unbearable lightness followed by five minutes of a cold, hard weight in his gut. 

But the lightness _wins_. It has to. Mickey just likes him too fucking much, and that, in and of itself, scares him as much as it thrills him.

So all things considered, things are great. Things are _fantastic_. 

Ian is Ian, and Ian is beautiful, and Ian texts Mickey gentle things, sometimes, when he's in bed and it's dark and the cat's purring away at his feet. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (12:05 AM):** Thank you.

 **Mickey (12:05 AM):** ?? For what

 **Ian (12:06 AM):** For talking to me. I don't think I've ever had a single person in my entire life outside of my family who just like, let me talk to them.

 **Mickey (12:07 AM):** You ok?

 **Ian (12:07 AM):** Yeah.

 **Ian (12:07 AM):** I know I'm being weird. 

**Ian (12:08 AM):** I was just thinking about stuff. Ignore me. 

**Mickey (12:08 AM):** Got it.

 **Ian (12:09 AM):** Anyway. Night, Mickey.

 **Mickey (12:09 AM):** Night.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

He pauses a moment, thinking.

And, y'know, _fuck it_ , he's not ignoring this shit.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (12:11 AM):** You sure you're ok?

 **Ian (12:12 AM):** I think I'm just exhausted. Working a lot. 

**Ian (12:12 AM):** To be honest, I'm a little wired right now. Mind's racing.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

He's noticed that he gets like that sometimes. Wired. Fast. 

It's not all the time, and it's never anything that Ian doesn't recognize in himself, as he always apologizes for being “weird” and ultimately seems to settle down soon enough.

And Mickey may not be a fuckin' genius, but he knows what this midnight text is about. He knows what Ian's asking for. What he needs right now.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (12:14 AM):** So that bitch at work get fired yet?

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey talks to him. He talks to him and talks to him.

They talk until two—about stupid, inconsequential shit that Mickey hardly even remembers in the morning. They talk until Ian starts getting slower and slower to respond and until he eventually drops off altogether.

\---

A week later, Mickey finds out.

And it isn't an explosion, blasting a crater in the earth, and it isn't a full-blown _episode_ or really even a major situation.

It's a beautiful, sleepy boy wrapped up like a burrito in his hunter green comforter, and it's _talking_.

\---

It's a week after their late-night chat and two days after Mickey's last spoken to him.

He'd been worried about him—sure—but he didn't wanna fuckin' pry and he didn't wanna use up any more of his time. He's busy. Mickey gets busy, too, sometimes. Busy in his head, busy in his thoughts.

It's nearly midnight of the second day with no contact, moving into the third, and Mickey's in bed, stretched out on his belly with one arm curled under his pillow. He isn't asleep, but he will be soon, and it's quiet—the neighbors ain't bangin' and the dishwasher's off and Jovi's sleeping in the living room, his purrs not loud enough to penetrate Mickey's bedroom.

His phone rings, and it's his FaceTime tone, and it's loud enough that it scares him into a start, scares his heart into a skip-skip followed by a steady pound.

Shaking himself, he switches on the lamp on the nightstand and grabs his phone.

“Yeah?” he answers, snuggling back under the covers and pulling the comforter up to cover most of his naked chest.

He hears Ian's voice, but the video takes a second to connect. When it does, all he really sees is a freckly, sleep-reddened face surrounded by a green comforter. The light in his room is dim, casting Ian in shadow, but he's soft-looking, even so, his eyes a little puffy as if he's been napping for hours.

Mickey twists onto his back and holds his phone up above his face. “Hey. You okay?”

Ian snuffles a little and wiggles so that more of his head is exposed. A lock of ginger hair bends over his forehead and touches his brow. “Hey.”

“What's up?”

Ian shrugs. “Just wanted to talk to you.”

Mickey _hmm_ s at that and sucks his bottom lip into his mouth.

And maybe it's because they're both tired, but they just stare at each other for the longest time. Ian blinks slowly, and Mickey watches his eyes and his mouth and the bit of barely-there stubble on his chin.

He rolls onto his side and rests his arm on the other pillow, holding the phone out so that Ian can see him.

“Somethin' goin' on with you?” he asks after several quiet minutes, examining the pull at the corners of Ian's lips. He looks _sad_ , he thinks. Sad and thoughtful, like he's contemplating letting Mickey in on his deepest, darkest secret.

Ian watches him for a moment more. 

Finally, after seemingly arriving at a decision, he sighs. He stretches, wiggles, and his face suddenly looks more alive than before, like he's forced himself to wake up. “Drowsy as fuck. Been sleeping most of the day.”

Mickey doesn't say anything, knowing Ian isn't finished.

“So, you know how I told you I had shit to tell you about at some point?”

“Yeah.” Mickey's being gentle. He's trying.

“Well. I'm bipolar.” And Ian says it slowly, a gap between the words, like he's admitting to a murder, like it's a source of heaviness on his heart and on his mind—a weight he's afraid to let anyone else help carry.

Mickey's heard the word. He's heard it used expressively, probably incorrectly, as an adjective to describe someone who's moody. He's heard someone say the weather's bipolar—cold one day, hot the next. Probably used it, himself.

“It's manic-depression,” Ian clarifies, pulling at his comforter so he can get both arms fully free. “Severe mood swings. Basically my brain cycles between high-highs—feeling like I'm fuckin' on top of the world—to low-lows—like the _worst_ unending depression—over and over again.”

He pauses and looks at Mickey, who bites at his lips and nods.

“I was diagnosed when I was seventeen. Had like, a break. Psychosis. Paranoia.” He seems _sad_ , though his voice is steady. 

He goes on to tell Mickey about the shit he was going through, about the army and about the fucking plane. About his mom. About the MPs and the arrest and finally, finally, the outcome. The psych ward. The Gallagher-style intervention. The watching him take his meds. How everyone was like his babysitter and how he fucking hated it, hated it, until he didn't. Until he leveled out and realized his family loved the hell outta him.

“I've been on my meds every single day since then.” He takes a deep breath. Swallows. “They've been adjusted a million fucking times. But they help. I'm stable.”

The corner of Mickey's mouth lifts. 

“So is this...?” he gets out, waving his free hand to indicate Ian's current situation.

Ian shakes his head. “No. I mean.” 

He pauses. Breathes. 

“Even with the meds, I cycle. The meds _help_ , and I haven't had a major episode in almost five years. But I still do go through periods of mania and depression. Just nothing unmanageable. The episodes are shorter. Less intense. And they fucking _suck_ , but I see my therapist on a regular basis—more whenever I notice mood changes—and we get it sorted with my meds.”

He pauses, as if waiting for Mickey to say something. Mickey just looks at him. Smiles a little. Gentle.

“Anyway,” Ian continues, scratching at his stubbly jaw. “I've been a little weird lately, like beginnings of mania, maybe. I dunno, really. Just kinda feeling like my brain's racing. Not able to sleep. Hypomanic, probably. Saw my therapist the other day, and she adjusted my meds.” He sniffs and sucks at his lips for a minute. “They make me drowsy for a while until I level out and my body gets used to the new configuration.”

“But like, what makes you get that way? Is it just like a _pattern_ , like you're manic, then you get better, then you're depressed, or.” Mickey rubs his thumb back and forth over his lips.

“Yes and no?” Ian shrugs. “I mean, that's basically how it works, but I have triggers, too, that can start up an episode. Like, big, emotional things. Stress.” 

He laughs for a second, just a breathy, unhappy thing, and continues with, “And what really fucking sucks about it is that even _good_ shit can trigger it. Like normal, happy shit that other people get to experience in their lives with no problems.”

“Doesn't seem fair,” Mickey says, voice even. “So, like, was this _triggered_ , or.”

Ian sighs. Works his mouth like he's not sure if he should keep talking. When he speaks, his voice is delicate. “Probably? I talked about some shit with my therapist, and she thinks... Yeah.”

He's being vague. Mickey gets it. It's none of his business.

He nods, scrapes his top teeth up and down on his bottom lip. “So how long's this last?” he asks, voice sleepy and rough but low, soft. Gentle.

“Should be back in action by the end of the week.” He pauses, eyes tilting upward as he thinks. “It's just my meds right now, really. I'll sleep it off. But like, the cycling, it isn't _constant_. If I'm feeling a little hypomanic, that doesn't mean I'll be depressed next week. I'll go months and months sometimes between episodes. And some of it's seasonal, even.”

“But you're okay?”

Ian smiles, soft, and nods. Gentle. “Yeah.”

“So when you said you haven't always done this kinda thing with a healthy mindset...” Mickey trails off, referring to the question he'd asked him once, weeks ago: “How'd you get into this?”

Ian nods. “When I first started having symptoms—this like, _intense_ mania—I was working at a club for a while. Like, underage. Dancing.” He pauses, studying Mickey's face. “I'd take drugs and shit and go home with men sometimes. Or to a hotel if they were married.” He laughs, humorlessly. “Sometimes I'd wake up not remembering a fuckin' thing.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.” Ian shrugs. “But I'm better. I'm healthy.” He smiles, tight. “Can't fuckin' drink for shit.” 

He snorts, reaching a hand up to rub over his face, and he just looks _beautiful_ to Mickey, all sleepy and stubbly. Warm. “That fuckin' voice memo I left you.”

“Yeah, that fuckin' _voice memo_.” Mickey laughs. “Trashed outta your fuckin' mind.”

“That was like, two beers, Mickey. Like, regular fuckin' beer. I can drink _one_ , maaaaybe, if I do it slow and wait for my body to catch up every couple sips before having more. But when I say I'm a lightweight, I mean I'm a fuckin' lightweight. My meds ruined that shit for me.”

And talking about this, he's getting smiley and a little giggly, his laughter low and sleep-gruff but _there_. Mickey smiles at him. Mickey _likes him_.

They're quiet for several minutes, just staring. Ian keeps scratching at his stubble, like the beard growth is itchy. At one point, he sits up, holding the phone in front of him, and lets the comforter drop, moving it away like he's feeling overheated. Mickey sees that he's wearing that thin gray t-shirt again, the over-washed, nearly threadbare one. It's rumpled, and there's a small hole in the neck seam.

“Now you know my deep, dark secret,” Ian says, voice lighter than it's been the entire conversation. He lays the phone down on the bed, and all Mickey sees is a white, slightly water-stained ceiling. He hears the sound of a drink opening, the _crack_ of the safety seal, and Ian picks up the phone again in time for Mickey to see him drink from a bottle of blue Gatorade. He chugs half of it in one go, like he's parched.

“You wanna slow down, there?” Mickey teases. He shuffles around himself until he's on his back once more, holding the phone up in front of his face.

“ _Mm_. Thirsty as fuck.” He takes another drink, then the phone is placed on the bed again while he apparently screws back on the lid, gets himself adjusted in bed, and stretches out on his back. When his face comes once more into view, Mickey sees that his position in bed mirrors his own.

Ian's head is now completely exposed as he lies on his pillow, and his hair's a mess from where he was wrapped up in the comforter like a burrito. 

And it's one of the gayest things that's ever crossed Mickey's mind, but all he can think as he stares at him is _Ian looks fuckin' cute as hell_.

“Mickey,” Ian starts, and he seems a little more awake now that he's downed the Gatorade. His voice is still soft, though—impossibly soft—when he asks, “Will you tell me something about you?”

He's feeling vulnerable, Mickey thinks, looking into his eyes, which are gently ringed by dark circles and still a little puffy from sleep.

And he's just told him something fucking huge about him. Something _personal_ and real. Something The fuckin' Crying Guy doesn't get to know. 

Mickey sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and takes a deep breath in through his nose, then out.

 _Why the fuck not._

He should know, anyway. Will need to know eventually. _Hopefully_.

“I've never really done anything with a guy,” he says, going for matter-of-fact but coming out stupidly soft. Gentle. “Sex stuff, I mean.”

And he was maybe expecting Ian to be a little surprised. Maybe a little taken aback. Weirded out, even. But he just smiles—gentle, gentle—and nods.

“Okay,” he says, as accepting as if Mickey has just told him his favorite color.

 _What do you mean, “okay”?_ is what he wants to say. But he supposes he should just accept the small favors. Accept the good things. Accept the fact that Ian's not an asshole, not even a little bit.

“Have you done things with girls?” Ian asks, and he just sounds curious and kind, and Mickey's mouth turns up.

“Yeah. Most things.” He pauses. “Not in a while, though. And it wasn't, like...”

“You weren't into it.”

Mickey nods, then runs a hand over his face. He blows out a breath and looks at himself in the corner of the phone screen. He looks tired as hell. “But it doesn't fuckin' mean anything, and it's not like I'm a fuckin' kid or some shit.”

And he _wants_ to tell him that he doesn't need to treat him like a pure, snow white virgin, and he wants to tell him it doesn't matter to him, it's just a thing, just a fact, so what?

Ian's cheeks have gone a little pink, and he's smiling. “I mean.” He pauses, scratches at his beard line. “I'm glad you told me,” and he says it in this gentle way, like he knows Mickey's on edge, a little, and like he doesn't want to escalate his anxiety. “That's...good to know. But.” He shrugs. Smiles. “You're Mickey.”

Mickey _snorts_ because he wasn't expecting that last sentence at all.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Ian breathes out a short, puff of a laugh out his nose. “Nothing, really. Just. Don't worry about anything, okay? I mean. Maybe you haven't had sex with a guy before, but like, there's stuff _I've_ never done. But I wouldn't expect the person I was with to treat me like a baby over it. We'd just do it, I'd ask questions if I had them, and then I'd figure it out.” He shrugs.

 _But I'm gonna be a fumbling fuckin' mess who comes in twelve seconds_ is what he wants to say. He just looks at Ian, instead, and he _knows_ his cheeks are red.

Ian just smiles at him. “Like I said. It's good to know—mostly 'cause I want to make sure it's _really, really_ good for you—“

And Mickey's breathing's picking up because _fuck_ , he's _actively_ talking about having sex with him.

“But you're a fuckin' adult. You know how to do it; you've just never done it before.” 

They settle down after a bit, the two of them—Mickey feeling shy and a little bit soft and stupid. He turns on his side again, and Ian does the same, and Mickey can't help but think it's like they're lying in bed together, side-by-side, facing each other.

Ian's sleepy but fighting it, Mickey can tell. He's a little dopey, a little smiley.

“Thanks for being...” Mickey says—whispers, really. “Not. Shocked or whatever.”

Or for not acting that way, at least. As much as Mickey wanted Ian to think he was experienced, if he'd acted outwardly surprised after learning the truth, he would've been fuckin' mortified.

Ian smiles at him. Sweet. He nods. “And y'know, don't be like, embarrassed or ashamed or anything. It's pretty common, honestly.”

Mickey rolls his eyes but smiles. “Yeah, yeah. You can stop talkin' about it now.”

“I will, I will. Just. One more thing.”

Mickey raises an eyebrow.

“A lot of guys think it's really, really hot. Like, being someone's first.”

And Ian's cheeks are fucking _red_. Mickey's heart pounds as he looks at him, arms turn to Jell-o, and he may be reading into it, may be seeing what he _wants_ to see, but well.

“Shut up,” Mickey says, biting his lip to keep from smiling. Ian looks charmed as hell, and Mickey sort of wants to die but also wants to lay there forever, forever, forever, looking at his face and his lips and his sleepy eyes and messy hair.

Ian closes his eyes, settling down, _smiling_ like he's lit up with sunshine on the inside.

“Get some rest, sleepy-face,” Mickey says with unabashed affection. He just can't help it. Can't help it at all.

Ian looks at him for a second, amused, then snorts. “You too. Sorry for keeping you up.”

“It's cool.”

And they're staring again, and it should be weird—should be weird to just spend so many seconds _looking_ with no pretense, no excuse—but it isn't, somehow. 

Ian reaches a hand up and rubs at his face, his eyes, scratches at his stubble.

“Okay,” Mickey says with conviction this time. “Go to sleep. You're fuckin' exhausted.”

“Yeah.” Ian takes a deep breath, which turns into a yawn. “Night, Mickey.”

“Night.”

They stare for a minute more before they end the call. Mickey drops his phone down in the covers, twists onto his back, and just fucking _wants him_.

\---

When Mickey wakes the next morning to his alarm, he finds that he has a text from Ian, sent about half an hour after they'd ended their call the night before.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (1:19 AM):** I like you so much.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

He smiles all fuckin' morning.

\---

During his lunch break, Mickey receives an email from kestrel with the subject heading, “Out of Service Notice.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

_Dear Mickey,_

_This is an automated notice to alert you that your Perfect Match, Ian, has reserved the following days as Out of Service:_

_Tuesday, April 28 – Friday, May 1_

_During this time, he will be unavailable during his designated work hours, and all scheduled video calls and in-person dates have been cancelled._

_We apologize for the inconvenience. Your Perfect Match will work with you to reschedule any appointments upon his return. You will not be charged for Out of Service days._

_If you have any questions or concerns, please do not hesitate to contact us._

_Sincerely,_

_team kestrel_

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Well, thank fuck for that. Maybe Ian'll be able to get some rest.

Mickey takes a bite out of his sandwich—he's switched over to Potbelly—and reads over the email again, eyebrow raising at some of the finer details, namely “designated work hours.”

Are these a _thing_? Because he's pretty sure he and Ian have been talking just like, _whenever_ , and though there are more typical hours of contact, sure, Mickey always assumed it was just whenever Ian wasn't busy with his day job.

 _Fuck_. He feels a little awkward for a second. A little _worried_ , even, though it's stupid, because has he been monopolizing his time? Goddammit.

Curious, Mickey opens up the kestrel app—truly for the first time in _weeks_ , as everything's gone iMessage and FaceTime only—and does a search for more information.

Under FAQ, there's a page entitled, “Client and Perfect Match Relations.” And really, this seems like something he should've read earlier—something he should've been _made_ to read by the app, honestly, but he either never received it or thought it was a Terms and Conditions type thing, just checking “I agree” and moving on.

He skims the page, mostly looking over the bolded headings for each section. And the majority of it is stuff he already knows—conduct, upgrades, tipping—but one of the headings is “Service Hours,” so Mickey clicks it and reads.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

**Service Hours**

Each Perfect Match will hold work hours of at least four hours per day for at least five days per week. It is the responsibility of the Perfect Match to communicate these hours and any required changes to all clients, and it is the responsibility of the clients to adhere to these hours. 

Exceptions to these work hours may occur in instances in which, for the benefit of both parties, video or in-person dates may be more conveniently scheduled outside of the designated hours.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Did Ian ever tell him his hours?

And _shit_ , Mickey's really been fucking up, honestly. The next heading is “Outside Contact,” and it is stated in no uncertain terms that the two of them are forbidden to contact each other using “outside methods of communication, including but not limited to social media accounts, personal email or cell phone numbers, or other dating or chat services.”

Then there's “Topics of Communication,” and it's apparently “inappropriate” to share or expect the sharing of personal information unrelated to the service at hand, and really, that's all they've been fuckin' doing lately. Talking about their jobs. Talking about Southside. Ian telling Mickey about his mental problems.

So, they're being unprofessional. Really, really unprofessional.

And it's not like Mickey didn't _know_ that. He was pretty sure it was against the rules for Ian to tell him, with a laugh, about how The Panties Guy has extraordinarily thick, pure white jizz, "like fuckin' Elmer's glue."

But, well. This all just solidifies the fact that they have a pretty fuckin' unconventional thing goin' on here, and Mickey's gotta be honest: it feels good.

\---

He's being really unprofessional again when he opens up Instagram that night and messages Ian while he waits for his Velveeta Shells & Cheese to cool enough to eat.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **mickm7189**  
Yo. Got the email about you being out of service. You doin ok?

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Ian doesn't reply for nearly five hours—when Mickey's putting out a few treats for Jovi and shutting everything down, preparing to go to bed.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **insta_iang**  
Hey Mickey. Thanks for checking on me. You just went up a little on the nice meter. 😉

 **insta_iang**  
I'm doing better but still a little tired. Honestly, I just mostly wanted a few days completely off. I think I've been overdoing it, maybe. I'm using a few days of leave at work, too.

 **mickm7189**  
Got it. Well get some sleep. 

**insta_iang**  
You too. The shoplifters ain't gonna tackle themselves. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey sets his phone down on his nightstand while he gets undressed down to his boxers and pulls back the covers to climb in.

He's not really expecting Ian to text him again, so he's planning to tell him goodnight and close out of the app. But when he picks up his phone to do so, he sees Ian's sent him something else.

Something that makes his heart pound so hard he feels like he can _see it_ if he looks down.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **insta_iang**  
By the way, let me give you my personal number for whenever I have my work phone off.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

He sends it along in the next message, and Mickey stares at it and stares at it.

And he wants to tell Ian that he doesn't have to, that _fuck_ , he's under no obligation to keep talking to him when he's off the clock. But, well.

He copies the number into his contacts under “Ian – Cell” and thinks about how this is probably the most unprofessional move yet.

\---

He feels _weird_ about using it, though, so he doesn't for a couple of days. He and Ian don't speak at all on Wednesday, but Ian does make an Instagram post—three pictures of him holding a baby on his hip. The baby's dressed in a blue and white striped outfit, and he's chewing the ear of an elephant teething toy.

“Freddie Gallagher: The Baby. The Myth. The Legend.” the caption reads, and Mickey realizes after perusing the comments that this must be his brother's kid. 

There's no way to tell when the picture was actually taken, but Ian looks good. Maybe a little tired, a little purple under the eyes, but he's smiling genuinely enough, and in the third one, he's kissing the baby's cheek, his eyes squeezed shut and his nose squished against Freddie's temple.

It feels invasive, but Mickey double-taps to like the post.

\---

He uses Ian's number for the first time on Thursday. He's just back from work, and after an embarrassingly long time of somewhat frantic searching, he's discovered that Jovi has found a new spot to sleep: on top of the kitchen cabinets, which he's apparently reached by jumping from the counter to the refrigerator and then up.

With a shrug, figuring this is as good a time as any, Mickey snaps a photo and sends it to Ian. And _fuck_ if he doesn't feel a little thrill at creating a new text thread with “Ian – Cell.”

If he's honest, Mickey kind of wanted to _talk_ to him—maybe for a while, even—but Ian just sends back a red heart emoji in response, and what's there to say to that?

And the longer it goes on without Ian adding something else, sending a picture of himself, starting up a conversation, saying _something_ like he usually does, like he _always_ does, the more Mickey starts to overthink fucking everything.

\---

He's agitated all day on Friday, and he feels fuckin' _stupid_ and desperate and needy as hell, which is just fuckin' embarrassing. Since when does he get like this? 

But he's also worried about Ian, and he's not sure what to do about it.

Sure, he could text him again. Hell, he could _call_ him. And he could ask all sorts of things, like, “Are you doing okay?” and “Have you been sleeping enough?” and “Are your meds working like they should?” and “I'm not putting too much stress on you, am I? Did I fucking _cause_ this shit?”

But Ian took the fucking week off, and yeah, he gave Mickey his number, but he's never been shy about messaging him when he wants to talk before. 

And now, he's just not. He's silent. 

Mickey doesn't want to bother him, and he doesn't want to make him _worse_. And he doesn't really know how that works—the trigger thing—but Ian was a little tight-lipped when discussing it, and Mickey can't help but worry that he has something to do with it—that he's stressing him out, somehow. 

He's really, really worried that he caused it. 

Ian's been overworked, stressed, and Mickey's been monopolizing his time.

On Friday night, he wants to text him, “Am I stressing you out?” but he figures that's probably the opposite of what he should do while Ian's taking days off due to something caused by stress. So instead, he has a couple beers, plays a couple hours of Doom: Eternal, and goes to bed, where he only sleeps for a couple hours.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

_Dear Mickey,_

_This is an automated notice to alert you that your Perfect Match, Ian, will resume work hours as of_

_Saturday, May 2_

_As a reminder, you will not be charged for hours in which your Perfect Match was marked Out of Service._

_If you have any questions or concerns, please do not hesitate to contact us._

_Sincerely,_

_team kestrel_

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey receives the email Saturday afternoon when he returns to his apartment from helping Mrs. Callaghan rearrange her furniture.

His arms are a little shaky with nerves as he pulls up his text thread with Ian—the regular work phone thread this time—and types out a message.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (3:51 PM):** What are your work hours?

 **Ian (3:53 PM):** Hey Mickey.

 **Ian (3:53 PM):** Why?

 **Mickey (3:54 PM):** Cuz I didn't know that was a thing

 **Ian (3:54 PM):** Yeah. Well, my hours are Monday through Saturday, 7 PM – 11 PM, but I mean, I don't really care about them or adhere to them all that much.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

Does he mean like, _in general_ , or...?

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (3:55 PM):** I just schedule all my appointments with my other clients during that time period.

 **Mickey (3:56 PM):** Ok, well I was just reading on the app the other day and saw there's like a shit ton of stuff I haven't been doing. Or that I've been doing wrong or whatever 

**Ian (3:56 PM):** Not your fault. Like, at all. 

**Ian (3:56 PM):** In fact, 90% of it is pretty firmly my fault, so I think we can just go with everything about us being unprofessional and not worry about it.

 **Mickey (3:57 PM):** I didn't know if I was like stressing you out or whatever. I dunno.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

He taps-taps-taps his fingers against the sides of his phone case. Waiting.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (3:58 PM):** Mickey, shut up.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

And that's _really_ not what he was expecting.

He waits for a second, heart pounding, trying to come up with something to say. His gut reaction is to send three question marks, but--

His phone rings.

It's “Ian – Cell.” 

Mickey breathes, breathes, _breathes_.

“Yeah?” he answers, fucking _soft_.

“You're an idiot.”

“The _fuck_ \--”

“You _literally_ do the opposite of stress me out, Mickey.” He laughs, and it's all breath, all static in Mickey's ear. “I gave you my personal phone number, you asshole. Do you think I've ever even _remotely_ done anything like that with another client?”

Mickey bites his lip.

“So just...” Ian _breathes_ , and then there's quiet, and Mickey knows he's smiling. “Just don't, okay? You can text me, call me, FaceTime me anytime you fuckin' want.”

Mickey blows out a breath and rubs his hand over his face. “I dunno. We just talk a lot, and it's outside your work hours, and you said you're overworked so I didn't know if this shit like, caused your bipolar thing, or.”

“Mickey, if it did, it's not 'cause you're fuckin' stressing me out, okay? I mean.” He sounds like he's going to elaborate, but he doesn't. “Just. Don't.”

Mickey sucks on his lips and shrugs to himself. It's quiet in the room, but he can hear his neighbor moving around, closing cabinets. The floorboards creak. 

“Are you okay?” he finally asks, having a seat on the couch.

“I'm good. Not as tired. Brain feels...” And Mickey can almost see Ian tapping on his head with his finger. “...pretty okay.”

“Sorry,” Mickey says because he feels like he needs to, and he doesn't say it very often, and well, he _knows_ shit. He knows more than he lets on, really. He knows that he freaks out sometimes, that he can be a tightly-wound ball of yarn that unravels at will, that he overthinks the fuck outta every situation he's in.

He presses his free palm to one eye, then the other. “I don't really know how to like, _do_ this,” he says, and he's being honest as fuck in a way that makes his voice soft.

And he could be talking about a million different things. He _is_ talking about a million different things.

But he can tell Ian's smiling when he says, “Me neither, Mick. So you can just move over in the fuckin' boat. Give me some room.”

Ian could be talking about _a million different things_ , and Mickey doesn't know if the million different things he's talking about are the same as his million different things.

Whatever. It doesn't really matter that much right now.

“Do you wanna know something?” Ian asks, voice soft and slow.

Mickey hums in response.

“I asked my fuckin' brother about you.” He laughs then, and Mickey smiles at the sound. “Lip.”

“He used to write my English papers.”

“Yeah. That's what he said.” 

There's a pause for a moment, and Mickey pushes his hips up and pulls out his pack of cigarettes. Takes one. Lights up. 

Ian continues. “And then I like, tried to Google you, and you're like a fuckin' ghost. There's nothing. I think I _maybe_ found your Facebook profile, but it's completely blank and you have no friends.”

Mickey laughs at that. “Stalker.”

“Bitch, at least I didn't accidentally friend request you on Facebook or something.”

“Are you _ever_ gonna get over that shit?”

“Never ever ever. It's funny as fuck.”

“I'm flipping you off right now.”

“I don't doubt it.”

Mickey takes a hard drag and blows it out through a laugh, the smoke coming out in puff-puff-puffs in time with his short exhalations. “I remember you working at the Kash and Grab.”

There's a breath sound—a nose-laugh. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. That's how I figured out who you were.” Mickey pauses. Takes another drag. Blows it out. “I sometimes walk through the neighborhood and go in there to get a drink, and I think you like, messaged me or something and it jogged my memory.”

“What am I like in your memory?”

Mickey smiles. “Freckly. Had that dumb haircut with the bangs.”

“Fuck you.” He's laughing, _laughing_ , and it makes Mickey's heart pound.

“I used to steal shit all the time.”

“Yeah, Kash and Linda fuckin' hated you. Did you know Linda installed security cameras because of that?”

“Fuck security cameras.”

They laugh together for a minute. Mickey feels good.

And he doesn't really know what's been resolved, here. He didn't ask any questions, and he doesn't have any _answers_. Ian's been kinda vague, and Mickey hasn't really said shit. But for some reason, he feels like they're on the same page now, even though he doesn't really know much about the book.

They talk for nearly an hour—about the Kash and Grab, Lincoln Grove High, about _Mandy_ and how Ian had gone over to the Milkovich house a couple times to study. How he'd eaten their pizza bagels and played their Xbox.

Mickey wonders how the fuck it was that he'd just missed him his whole life, just passed him by, didn't even think about the pretty, freckly redhead. Was he out on runs with his dad and brothers? In juvie? In his fuckin' room, strumming his guitar along with one of the CDs he'd stolen from the music store? 

Was Ian really just _right there_ this whole time?

\---

Ian needs to go at around four-thirty, so Mickey lets him, making up some things he's gotta do, as well.

“I've gotta go get Jovi some more food and shit,” he says, pretty blatantly lying in order to make himself sound busier than he actually is. He's probably gonna smoke a bowl and play some fuckin' Mortal Kombat.

Ian _hm_ s. “Well, kiss the little guy for me.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“And fuckin' promise me something.”

Mickey raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“I've stopped apologizing for being unprofessional, so you stop thinkin' for like one fuckin' second that you're bothering me, okay?” He pauses for a moment, as if waiting for Mickey to respond, but forges on when he doesn't. “Like, I know that you almost never start conversations, and you don't call me or anything like that. But. You _can_ is what I want you to know. And I don't give a fuck about work hours or shit like that. Just. Talk to me whenever the fuck you want to, okay? About anything. Even if it's like, telling me about a movie you watched or about something funny that happened at work.”

Mickey takes a deep breath. “Fine. Yeah.”

“'cause if you can't tell because you're a fuckin' idiot, I like talkin' to you, Milkovich.”

“Yeah, yeah. Shut up, Gallagher.”

“You make me happy, y'know. I'm like, fuckin' working a lot, and I don't really have a lot of interesting shit going on in my life other than stupid family drama sometimes. And believe it or not, I don't even really have any friends besides a couple people at work I go out with on occasion. So.” He breathes for a minute, just this slow in-and-out rhythm of static in Mickey's ear. “Anyway. I'm just sayin' that you and Lip are like, the only people I ever talk to about stuff, and well, Lip's kind of a dick sometimes.” There's a quick laugh. “So are you, for that matter.”

Mickey snorts, but his cheeks are flaming up, and _goddammit_. _God-fucking-dammit_ , does Ian _like him_?

He wants to tell him so much shit right now. He wants to tell him that he's literally the _only_ person he talks to. _Ever_. He's the only person he really gives a fuck about right now in more than a vague, familial obligation way.

He wants to tell him he jerks off to him almost every night, that he's beautiful, that he likes his stupid fucking rapping and his cereal and how that unruly piece of hair flops over his forehead.

He sniffs instead and murmurs, “Yeah.”

“ _Mm._ Love that response to my monologue.” There's no heat in it. Ian's smiling, Mickey can tell, and he knows it's because he somehow _gets him_.

But he can give him more.

“I don't really talk to anybody, either,” Mickey says, and it's low and a little nervous. “Fuckin' pathetic. You're the only person I've texted this whole week.” He laughs a little, humorlessly, because he's a fuckin' loser, really, and this shit's embarrassing. 

He doesn't want Ian's pity. He doesn't want Ian to tighten his mouth when he thinks about him being alone as hell.

“Then can we just agree that us talking to each other is a really fucking good thing and go from there?” Ian says, and it's so no-bullshit, no-pity, that it makes Mickey breathless.

“Yeah,” he says, and it is. It's a really fucking good thing.

Mickey's boring, and he's friendless, and he has nothing to offer anybody and yet Ian _likes him_. Ian's beautiful, and he gave Mickey his personal number, and he wants to tell him things. He wants to _talk to him_. Anytime. Whenever Mickey wants.

He breathes. 

\---

They say goodbye, and Mickey spends nearly thirty minutes stretched out on the couch, thinking about him. Thinking about his face. His eyes, his nose, his mouth, those freckly eyelids and ginger lashes.

He eventually does smoke his bowl and play his Mortal Kombat. 

And later, he bakes a stuffed crust DiGiorno pizza and eats it in front of the TV, and he wonders if this—this feeling in his chest—is what people write about, is what they sing about in songs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fun facts for Chapter Six:  
> -Ian's session with his therapist is a scene I _really_ want to write once I'm finished with this. What do you guys think they talked about? 😉
> 
> -I'm writing Mickey here with issues with anxiety, toxic thoughts, and self-esteem. It's not ever going to be addressed super directly or given a name like Ian's bipolar, but I do want it to come across that Mickey is deeply alone and is struggling and that he very much is in need of support. He needs someone to reassure him and talk to him and show him that he's worthy of love. He “freaks out” a lot, and he can spiral, and as much as it _is_ partially the dramatics of his personality, it's also a reflection of his deep-rooted insecurities and worries that he's constantly doing something wrong and that he doesn't deserve happiness. This is a sad fact, really. Sorry.
> 
> -And just to not end this on a sad note, when Ian said “a lot of guys” think it's hot being someone's first, he means him. Ian is A Lot of Guys.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Love you all! 
> 
> Next chapter's pretty major and is also a return to the sweet, happy, awkward as all hell boys we know and love. See you then!
> 
> Gray // gallavichy
> 
> Also, I created a fandom Twitter account. I _really_ don't know how much I'll actually tweet, as I've never used the platform for anything other than retweeting, but please follow me if you wanna talk! <3 I'm @GrayolaSays.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian and Mickey try something new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Ian and Mickey _do not_ have a date. ~~It's totally a date.~~
> 
> This was originally intended to be the exact midpoint of the story, and uh, it's a little major. I had a blast writing it. Hope you enjoy!

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (8:13 PM):** So do you like make out with your clients or whatever

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey's halfway through his third beer when he asks this on Saturday night. He's folded into an old, blue La-Z-Boy recliner he recently picked up from a garage sale, and the cat's sleeping on the seat back in a little curl. And really, he just feels relaxed as fuck, with a major network singing competition muted in the background and cheeseburger Pizza Rolls in the oven.

Ever since their talk a couple weeks before, Mickey's been texting Ian's cell all the fuckin' time. What used to be short, clearly-defined conversations that eventually turned to all-day chatter that then turned to sometimes multiple-hour-long talks, is now a mixture of all three, sometimes within the same day.

It isn't unusual for Ian to text Mickey good morning at seven, often leading to a short conversation while they have their coffee. Then they'll talk during Mickey's half-hour lunch break, their conversation then turning into a few texts sent every hour or so until Mickey's off work. 

Most nights, even, they'll call each other and talk for an hour or more, decompressing their days, discussing work, Ian's family, Mickey's cat, and usually ending the night with a petty argument of some sort in which they both have to school their voices to keep from sounding too giddy.

So even though it's only been a couple weeks since Ian called him an idiot and told him to talk to him whenever he fucking wants, Mickey has now had enough practice in creating and maintaining casual conversation that he's gotten a little brave.

And he's just been idly glancing at the muted singing competition while fucking around on his laptop, and one of the contestants' sob stories is intercut with pictures of her kissing her fiancé, and it just gets Mickey thinking.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (8:13 PM):** So do you like make out with your clients or whatever

 **Ian (8:15 PM):** Sometimes. Why?

 **Mickey (8:16 PM):** I dunno, just seems kinda gross I guess.

 **Mickey (8:17 PM):** Since you mostly top I can get the fucking thing but like why would you want some wrinkly old married dude's tongue down your throat

 **Ian (8:17 PM):** 😂 Why are you even thinking about this?

 **Mickey (8:18 PM):** Shut up

 **Ian (8:18 PM):** And okay, this may be really douchey of me, but if I'm not remotely attracted to them, I usually tell them I don't kiss.

 **Ian (8:19 PM):** You'd honestly be surprised at how little the clients I meet up with actually want that, though. I think since a lot of them are in relationships, they consider kissing on the mouth cheating. Mostly they either want a pretty standard doggy-style fuck or they want to blow me before I jerk them off.

 **Mickey (8:19 PM):** Got it

 **Ian (8:20 PM):** It's been a while since I've kissed a client. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey _really_ wants to ask him how often he fucks outside of the app, how often he kisses people, but he doesn't. He may be a little more comfortable broaching somewhat personal subjects now, but he draws the line at anything having to do with Ian Gallagher's real world sex life.

He's quiet for a while, trying to think of something to say in response to Ian's last text. At some point, the oven beeps, and he gets up to take out his Pizza Rolls. 

And while he's arranging all the delicious little rectangles on a plate, Ian texts him again.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (8:25 PM):** That answer your question? 🤨

 **Mickey (8:26 PM):** Yeah

 **Ian (8:26 PM):** What are you doing?

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey snaps a picture of his carefully-arranged Pizza Rolls and sends it to Ian.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (8:28 PM):** Nice.

 **Mickey (8:28 PM):** Why? What are you doing

 **Ian (8:29 PM):** Having a post-workout soak. 💪

 **Ian (8:29 PM):** And it's reeeeal sexy 'cause I literally had to duct-tape the overflow drain because it's fucked up and if any water gets in it the tub leaks all over the floor.

 **Mickey (8:30 PM):** Hot

 **Ian (8:31 PM):** 🔥🔥

 **Ian (8:31 PM):** You cool with a couple pictures?

 **Ian (8:31 PM):** Of me, not the duct-tape. 

**Ian (8:31 PM):** But I'll send a picture of that too if you really wanna get your motor running.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Eating Pizza Rolls with filling that's so hot it burns the hell out of his tongue isn't exactly Mickey's ideal action to be completing while receiving bathtub nudes, but fuck if he's gonna turn it down.

He texts, “Why not,” and pushes his plate away to give his food time to cool and also so he can concentrate on the very important situation at hand.

Four pictures come through about five minutes later, and Mickey feels blood rushing to his dick even as he watches them download.

When he actually sees them, he sticks his hand down his shorts and just holds on for a second because _fuck_.

The first is just Ian from the waist up. He's leaned back in the tub, head resting where the ledge turns into shower wall. His face is flushed, presumably from the heat of the water, and those errant fucking ginger strands that usually bend over his brow are stuck to his forehead with either sweat or water.

He's hot as fuck, the tub water just skimming above his navel, and all that gingery body hair is dark and clinging to his chest and stomach from wetness.

But the best thing is his face, which is screwed up in what Mickey can only assume is Ian's attempt at a playful badass expression, his mouth a hard line, nose scrunched, and eyes narrowed. He's stupid and cute and Mickey smiles even as he rolls his eyes at him.

The second picture reveals Ian sitting up straighter in the tub, and Mickey can see his water-dark pubic hair and the first two inches of his dick at the bottom of the frame. He's got his hand on his stomach, fingers bent like he's scratching at the area above his navel, and he's smiling this time, eyes cast down, looking at either his hand or his dick.

The third one, though, is the one that makes Mickey sincerely contemplate rubbing one out at the kitchen table. It looks like a POV shot that Ian rotated to be more traditionally-oriented, and it's the lower half of his belly—starting at the navel—down to his upper thighs. Ian has his hand on his partially-submerged dick, pulling it up like he's genuinely about to jerk off, and he's at least a little hard, that lazy vein Mickey's studied in other pictures like an A+ student already more prominent. 

And the thing that gets him about it is that everything's so _wet_. There are beads of water on the parts of his dick not submerged, and Mickey can imagine—though he knows it isn't—that it's precome, that those ginger hairs beneath his navel are dark and flat to his skin from sex sweat. 

Just _thinking about it_ makes Mickey's knees weak, gets his own cock in such a state that he has to adjust himself in his boxers.

And there are _a lot_ of things that Mickey could say to those pictures, but in an effort to not appear as a total pathetic horndog, he simply comments on the fourth picture, which is of the duct-taped overflow drain, Ian's toes poking up out of the water on either side. It is a nice picture, really, if only because Mickey can see the wispy, ginger hairs on his toes. There's also the fact that the nail of his left big toe is purply-black.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (8:41 PM):** Why's your toenail fucked up

 **Ian (8:41 PM):** You say such sweet things.

 **Ian (8:41 PM):** Subungual hematoma from dropping a soup can on it. Shut up in advance. 🖕

 **Mickey (8:41 PM):** The fuck is that

 **Ian (8:42 PM):** Blood under the nail, basically. It's probably gonna fall off.

 **Mickey (8:42 PM):** You're right, that did get my motor running

 **Ian (8:43 PM):** 😏

 **Ian (8:43 PM):** So, what'd you think about the others?

 **Mickey (8:44 PM):** Man, don't ask me shit like that

 **Ian (8:44 PM):** I'll just assume that's a 10/10.

 **Mickey (8:44 PM):** Assume whatever you want, asshole

 **Ian (8:45 PM):** 11/10 again? Damn.

 **Mickey (8:45 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (8:46 PM):** If you're interested, I have another that I can send you.

 **Ian (8:46 PM):** It's a little more sexual than what I normally send, but it's nothing extreme. Want it?

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 _Why_ does he make him do this? Sometimes, Mickey honestly wishes that Ian would just send him shit without asking.

But then, he also knows that he appreciates the hell outta Ian _not_ doing that—appreciates that he's a really fuckin' considerate pain in the ass.

“Do whatever you want,” he texts, snatching up one of his Pizza Rolls and popping it into his mouth. And _goddammit_ , why are they always either hotter than Satan's asshole or ice cold?

He chews slowly as he waits and thinks about the possibilities, and really, he _knew_ what this picture was going to be before he even saw it.

It's a continuation of the third photo—the navel-to-thighs shot—and pose-wise, really isn't all that different.

There _is_ one notable exception, though: Ian's dick is _unquestionably_ hard.

The vein along the side is more pronounced—just as Mickey always thought it'd be—and though his cock hasn't increased in length an awful lot, he's definitely plumper, thicker, _pinker_.

Ian's fingers grasp himself just under the head, like he's massaging all his most sensitive areas, but his dick itself's doing an admirable job of holding its own out of the water, pointing toward his belly and leaning slightly to the right.

Mickey immediately saves the photo to his camera roll. He squeezes his thighs together just a bit, just to relieve some of the pressure, maybe, and takes a shaky drink of his beer.

He's a little at a loss for words or even _thoughts_ , honestly, because he's looking at Ian Gallagher's erection for the first time while knowing that it's gonna be inside him one day. And that, _that_ gets him harder than a fuckin' diamond.

After staring at the picture, after zooming in on the head and Ian's fingers and that _vein_ , Mickey sticks his hand all the way inside his underwear and just strokes for a bit. He's not _jerking off_ really, just feeling his body's response. Obviously, ever the leaker, he's a little damp at the head—just the slightest bit—and running his fingers through that tiny bit of wetness only encourages more.

And he's not, _not_ jerking off at the fuckin' kitchen table. He bites his lip a little, and his breath's picking up, making noise as it puffs out his nostrils, but he's _definitely not jerking off_ when his phone _ding_ s with a message from Ian.

Mickey jumps, startled, if only because his ringer's loud in the otherwise quiet apartment. 

He quickly pulls his hand out of his pants and wipes it off on the fabric of his shorts.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (8:58 PM):** 👍 or 👎?

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

He laughs at that. Because even if Ian's still being annoying, asking him what he thinks about his dick, doing it this way is somehow remarkably easier.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (8:58 PM):** 👍

 **Mickey (8:58 PM):** 🖕

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

No one texts for twenty minutes, and after Mickey takes himself to the bathroom and jerks off over the toilet like a fuckin' teenager, he realizes, as he microwaves his cold Pizza Rolls, that maybe they just masturbated together.

 _Surely_ Ian wasn't just gonna let his dick go down on its own. He was playin' with himself in the bath, and now the two of them probably just finished the job at the same time during that twenty-minute period of radio silence.

This is a thought that would've undeniably made Mickey hard again if he were sixteen. As it is, he still gets a bit of a twitch when he imagines Ian coming all over those tight abs and then using the bathwater to clean it off.

\---

Ian calls him just before nine-thirty, and they talk for nearly an hour. Mickey puts Ian on speakerphone and makes some attempt at picking up around his apartment while they chat about random, inconsequential shit. Ian tells him more about dropping the can on his toe and then humble-brags about how it still hurts like hell to the point that he could barely finish his six-mile run that day, and Mickey tells him to “calm the fuck down, Usain Bolt.”

And the whole time they're talking, Mickey's thinking about him jerking off, wondering what kind of noises he makes and whether he squeezes his eyes shut when he comes. Whether he bites his lip, gets all red and warm, whether those hair strands stick to his forehead the longer it goes on, the sweatier he gets, the _wetter_ he gets, the--

“Just FYI,” Ian's saying, and Mickey freezes for a second in the midst of tying up the mesh bag he'll take to the laundromat tomorrow. In the midst of thinking about Ian pleasuring himself.

“What?” he asks, awkwardly tossing the laundry bag into the corner of his room and dropping down on his bed.

“ _FYI_ ,” Ian repeats, voice harder—and _yeah_ , he knows Mickey's been zoned out—“I'm most likely gonna need dinner help sometime next week, so stayed tuned, bitch.”

Mickey snorts. “I thought you were an adult now.”

“I'm most likely gonna need help boiling pasta or something. It's very difficult.”

The corners of Mickey's mouth tilt upward. “Yeah, yeah, fuck you,” he says, voice heatless and amused. He rubs his eyes and then stretches out, hand idly scratching at his stomach. “Difficult, huh?”

Ian chuckles, a breathy thing, and Mickey can hear him shuffling around. There's the rumble of a drawer opening. Closing. “FaceTime dinner? Minus the cat stroking?”

“Thought I fuckin' told you not to talk about me strokin' my cat.”

“Petting your pussy, then.”

Mickey groans. “You can fuck off with that shit.”

Ian's laughing now, and Mickey closes his eyes and smiles, soaking it in.

 _God_. What if he does that sometimes after he comes? What if he does it during sex, when he's having fun, when he's happy?

A moment after his laughter settles down, there's a pause, then, “So. FaceTime this week? You're gonna eat, too.”

Mickey takes a deep breath through his nose. Blows it out slowly, slowly. “Fine.”

Another pause.

“Yeah?” It's soft.

“Yeah.”

\---

They don't mention the FaceTime plan throughout most of the week, though they continue to talk every day. 

Mickey jerks off more than he's ever jerked off in his entire life over those few days in between. And _fuck_ , it's not like he didn't think Ian was hot before. _Obviously_ he fucking did, as the guy had somehow propelled his grown-ass adult body back into the fevered horniness of adolescence ever since he started sending him dick pics.

But the thing is, now that Mickey's seen him _hard_ , it's like somebody's cranked up the heat on the stovetop, his body running hot, its default state somehow going from a simmering, deep-itch horniness that jerking off once or twice a day'll take care of to this intense _desire_. 

He even had a full-on fuckin' _wet dream_ on Monday night, and he hadn't had one of those in years.

He was a little embarrassed, even, when he talked to him Tuesday morning. Ian had sent him a good morning text, and Mickey had been in bed still, jizz crusting up his boxers like a goddamn gross thirteen-year-old. 

And even though he literally only typed back “Hey,” it felt suspicious somehow. He felt like Ian fuckin' _knew_ something.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (7:17 AM):** I'm out of coffee. Wanna come shoot me?

 **Mickey (7:17 AM):** Yeah

 **Ian (7:18 AM):** Ouch.

 **Ian (7:18 AM):** Thanks, asshole. ✌️

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey saunters into the bathroom, still weirdly dazed from the apparently _rockin'_ sex dream he can't remember, and pulls off his boxers. He washes the dried come out of his pubes the best he can, takes a piss, then wanders back into his room to get ready for work.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (7:29 AM):** You okay?

 **Mickey (7:29 AM):** Yeah

 **Ian (7:29 AM):** 🤨

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Sure, he gets over it pretty quickly, their conversations returning to normal by their lunch break chat, but _Jesus Christ_ , his body's turned it up to eleven without warning and his brain's still trying to catch up.

\---

He's stretched out on the couch with the laptop on his chest Thursday night, contemplating watching porn— _goddammit_ —before making dinner, when Ian texts him.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (7:03 PM):** Teach me how to boil water.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Here it is. Mickey takes a deep breath and slams his laptop shut, tossing it to the other side of the couch. He's gonna look at him, huh—gonna see his face and his mouth and his eyes and all those freckles after jerking off literally twelve times in five days to his dick.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (7:04 PM):** You're an actual dumbfuck if you can't boil water bitch

 **Ian (7:04 PM):** 😏 You free?

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey quickly turns on the front camera of his phone and pushes around his hair a little. He keeps it more closely cut at the sides and back these days, but it's getting a little long on top—enough, at least, that he's starting to get a bit of a swoop that threatens to fall onto his forehead.

Once satisfied, he moves into the kitchen, flips on the lights, and finally texts Ian back.

\---

“Hey, hey,” Ian says once their FaceTime call connects a few minutes later.

And _goddammit_ , he looks fuckin' _good_ , at least what Mickey can see of him. He's got on a white tank top that shows off just a peek of that ginger chest hair and a lot of those shoulder freckles, and he looks healthy again, that purple-ringed, sleepy-eyed look from the last time they FaceTimed completely gone.

He's smiling, and there's the barest shadow of stubble on his chin, and it's all Mickey can do not to just stare at him like an idiot.

Steeling himself, he greets him with a “hey” and watches as Ian props his phone up on the counter and adjusts it so that his stove-top's in view. When he steps back, Mickey sees he's wearing gray sweats with pockets. He can see the shadow of the bald eagle tattoo through the thin fabric of his shirt, and just the edge of what looks like black boxer briefs are visible at his left hip where his shirt's ridden up a little.

Mickey gets his opportunity to just look at him then, as Ian leans over, elbows to the counter, and watches him with a wide, closed-mouth grin—that fuckin' fifteen-year-old kid grin. 

“So,” he says after a minute, scratching his chin. “I'm making spaghetti. What's on the menu for you?”

Mickey hadn't thought about it, really, but he's got a Stouffer's Chicken & Rice Bake he can nuke. Pausing for a second—considering—he props his own phone up on the the paper-towel holder, grabs the box from the freezer, and holds it up for Ian to see.

“Y'know,” Ian says, voice holding that playful accusatory tone, “I could make fun of _your_ food choices all day. You eat like a college kid. Or a stoner with those fuckin' Pizza Rolls.”

“At least it's real food, asshole.”

Ian holds up air quotes. “'Real.' 'Food.'”

Mickey flips him off and starts ripping apart the box.

Ian watches him, amused, before making a _tttch_ noise and moving away from the phone to dig around in his messy-ass cabinets for a pot.

“If you bothered to even remotely organize your cabinets, you wouldn't be having this problem,” Mickey says after a minute, flitting his eyes between the microwave instructions for his dinner and the pockets on the ass of Ian's sweats as the guy clangs around, looking for the pot lid.

Apparently finding it, Ian sets it down on the counter and turns to Mickey. “Oh, fuck you. As if _you're_ organized. Show me around your apartment.”

And the thing is, Mickey's fairly certain he's just as messy, if not _messier_ , than Ian. There's just somethin' to the teasing him thing that makes Mickey light up inside. 

But whatever.

He kind of _does_ have shit everywhere, but after putting the Stouffer's tray in the microwave and setting it for ten minutes, he carries his phone around and shows Ian his place.

It's not much, really, but it's better than any place he's lived before. Mickey shows him the living room area adjoining the kitchen, where Jovi's curled up in the recliner, and then he takes him into the bathroom, which—okay—is a fucking disaster, and he could really stand to squeegee his shower.

Finally, just like in Ian's tour, he brings him into his bedroom and sits down on his bed. 

“So, can I just say,” Ian starts, stirring a wooden spoon through the pasta he's boiling, “that your place is great, and I like it a lot, but bitch, you can _never_ say another thing about me being messy.”

“Fuck you,” Mickey says, flipping Ian off and smiling. His cheeks are warm, maybe with embarrassment, but who fuckin' cares? He's having fun. He drops backward onto his bed, holding the phone up above his head.

They stare at each other for a minute, Ian's eyes roaming all over face. His eyes are soft, and he's got the faintest of smiles touching his lips.

“Blue-Eyes,” he says after a long moment, calling Mickey that like a nickname. He grins and goes back to his stirring.

\---

By the time Mickey's chicken and rice bake is nuked and cooled, Ian's making himself a bowl of spaghetti, scooping out some noodles from the drained pot and, in a way that would make an Italian mother cry, opening up a jar of Prego and pouring a little of the marinara straight into the bowl.

He pulls a fork from a drawer and uses it to stir his food, mixing the noodles with the sauce.

They sit down together then, each at his own kitchen table. Ian props up his phone where he had it when he ate his pizza, and Mickey makes his own phone-stand out of an empty coffee mug that's been sitting there since morning.

“Spaghetti's probably not the sexiest food for me to be eating right now,” Ian says, twirling his fork in his bowl and then pulling it out, carrying with it long strands of noodles that he's probably gonna have to slurp up.

Mickey's decidedly not mad about it. 

He smirks. “Who cares, man? Eat your fuckin' noodles.”

They make idle chatter as they eat. Ian asks Mickey questions about work, which turns into a discussion about security at midnight movie premieres, which then turns into an argument about the more recent _Star Wars_ movies and whether they remotely measure up to the originals.

Mickey's seen some of the movies, but he doesn't give a flyin' fuck about _Star Wars_ and he has a feeling Ian doesn't either. But they each give as good as they get, ramping up the argument for the sake of the game.

“You're an asshole,” Ian declares with his mouth full—completely done with any sense of manners he pretended to have at the start of his bowl.

“You don't even know what you're fuckin' talkin' about.” Mickey tries to school his features, tries to be straight and serious, but he thinks his eyebrows are giving him away, as he can't stop lifting them, amused as fuck.

“How many _Star Wars_ movies have you seen, bitch?”

“All of them. _Bitch_.” 

It's a lie.

“I don't believe you.”

“Well, too fuckin' bad.” Mickey takes a long pull from his beer, holding up his middle finger as he does. 

When he swallows and sets the bottle back down on the table, he sees that Ian's looking at him, smiling. 

They break into laughter then, Ian rubbing his hands over his cheeks and looking so pleased with himself.

“Dick,” Mickey says, huffing another laugh. He bites his lip. Looks at him.

He seems so fuckin' _happy_. 

It's a good look on him, and Mickey wishes he could take a picture of it now, _right now_ , and keep it under his fuckin' pillow like a middle school girl.

\---

After a few minutes, the two of them grab drinks—Mickey another beer and Ian a Coke—and migrate to their living rooms. Mickey stretches out on the couch, leaning back against the armrest, and Ian flops down into his own tan recliner. 

They drink together, pausing in between to murmur about random shit. 

Pausing in between to just _look at each other_.

Never in his entire life has Mickey been in this situation. Never has he just wanted to _look at someone_ and have that someone look back at him. And while part of him wants to flee from it—turn from it, break the gaze and pick a petty argument, get them talking again—the larger part of him doesn't give a single fuck because right now, Ian's smiling at him and he looks _happy_ , and _goddammit_ , Mickey knows that he does, too. 

He feels his closed-mouth smile crack his face, feels his eyes turn up, and after a second, he has to drink desperately from his beer to hide his stupid blush.

 _What is wrong with him_?

\---

When their drinks are empty and it's probably time to go—the natural end to whatever-the-fuck-it-is they're doing here—Ian squeezes his soda can in his fist, crushing it, showing off. He gets up out of his recliner and carries his phone with him into the kitchen, where he props it up once more on his counter.

Mickey hears him toss the crushed can in the trash, and then he returns, bending over and resting his elbows on the counter in the same position he was in at the beginning of the call.

“Mickey,” Ian says, and his voice sounds so soft and gentle that Mickey's face flames up again—if the redness ever even went away. 

He needs something to do with his hands, but his bottle's empty and he doesn't have his cigarettes on him. He fidgets.

And this feeling, this antsy, itchy feeling in his fingers only multiplies exponentially when he hears what Ian says next.

“So.” He pauses. Smiles. Looks all over Mickey's face in a way that makes Mickey want to put his hand over it. “Are we on a date right now?”

Fucking _what_?

Mickey's heart pounds so hard that he legitimately feels off-kilter for a second. He's got those goddamned Jell-o arms, and his breath comes and goes so hard that he has to open his mouth.

He _sputters_ , stutters, and in the most embarrassing way ever, somehow manages to get out, “What the fuck, Gallagher?”

Ian looks at him like he thinks he's the dumbest son-of-a-bitch on the planet, but he's smiling, too, like he fuckin' _knows something_.

“What?” Mickey prompts at that look. _Jesus Christ_.

Ian's face moves—like he's considering schooling it, shaping it into something more serious than what he ends up with—and he finally breathes out a laugh through his nose in three puffs of air. He inhales and cracks _that smile_ again.

“Yeah. We're definitely on a date,” he says, and Mickey just gapes.

“I don't know what you're talkin' about, fuckhead,” he starts, and _he has got to get another beer right now_. He scrambles off his couch and heads over to his fridge for a drink.

“Mickey.”

There it is again, that soft-ass _Mickey_ , like Ian's endlessly amused and endeared and talking to an animal he doesn't wanna spook.

Mickey props his phone up on the paper-towel holder and leans over the counter, mirroring Ian's position. He opens his beer. Takes a drink. “What?”

“We met through a sex app. I think you can admit we're not penpals.” 

He raises an eyebrow, challenging Mickey.

Mickey's heart hammers. 

And you know what? Fine. _Fine_. It's true, obviously. It's not like Mickey's not willingly doing this whole thing, and it's not like he's doing it without the intent of eventually having sex with Ian, and it's not like he's not basically _obsessed_ with the ginger-ass motherfucker.

He scoffs and drinks his beer.

And Ian just _smiles_ at him like he _knows things_.

“So, what do _you_ do on dates?” Ian asks after several moments of just looking at him, smiling at him.

“Do we really have to talk about this shit?”

Ian shrugs. He walks away from the phone for a minute, and Mickey can hear the refrigerator opening and closing. When he returns, he's holding another can of Coke, which he opens and drinks from in a short, slightly slurpy pull. “We don't _have_ to,” he says once he swallows, and his tone of voice implies _but I want to_.

Mickey looks at him for a minute, twisting his lips up. Sucking them. Biting them. He thumbs at his nose for a second and says to the countertop, “Never really been on one.”

When he moves his eyes back up to Ian's face, he sees that Ian's nodding. And again, he doesn't look shocked, and he doesn't look like he feels _bad_ for Mickey.

“Yeah,” he says, setting down his Coke can and propping his head up on his fist. “Me neither?” He shrugs. “Not really, at least. Not a real one. At a restaurant. With like, _utensils_.”

Mickey smirks. “Don't got clients takin' you out?”

“Please.” Ian rolls his eyes. “I've been to a couple wine bars. A party. I have a very specific, weirdly consistent clientele, and y'know. Most of 'em don't wanna parade me around in public for fear of us running into people they know.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows and nods. He takes a slow drink of beer.

“But anyway,” Ian's saying. Mickey lowers his beer and sets it down so he can watch Ian's face. “I've never been on like, a _romantic_ date.” He presses his lips together in a tight line. “Never done anything romantic with anybody, really. Maybe when I was a kid.” He scoffs, clearly thinking about something, looking back on it with bitterness.

And Mickey's a little taken aback by that because how the hell is it possible that someone who looks like Ian, who _is_ like Ian, who's so confident in his sexuality, hasn't really dated people?

His face must give away his thoughts because Ian smiles, tight-lipped, and shrugs. “I've always had _sex_. I've had lots of hookups, a couple fuck-buddies.” He takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly. “I've just never been in a mature, like, _loving_ relationship. Ever.”

Mickey just nods. 

He's not sure what to say to that, really. He could say, if he felt brave, that he hasn't either. Hasn't ever been in love. But it's not like Ian doesn't know that already.

“Did you know I used to fuck Kash?” He laughs a little, but it's unhappy.

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “When you were workin' at the store?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck. He was like _forty_.”

Ian nods. Shrugs. “Yeah. And like, I get from an objective standpoint that that was pretty fucked up, but.” He pauses. “It didn't _feel_ like that, though?”

“Yeah, 'cuz he was a _fuckin' pedo_. Pretty sure that's kinda their MO.”

Ian hums and takes a drink of his Coke. “Well.” He tilts his head and shrugs like he doesn't know.

And then he just keeps _going_. He tells Mickey about fucking an old-ass doctor who was apparently the father of his sister's boyfriend, and the story gets so goddamned convoluted with all the names that Mickey gets a little lost after a while.

“Fuck,” he says once Ian's done, spinning his beer bottle. 

Ian chuckles a little, bending his head and doing it into his chest. “Yeeeah.” He sniffs, and when he lifts his head, he looks straight at Mickey, the corner of his mouth tilting upward. “But that's like the sum total of my dating life, so.”

“Fucked up.”

Ian shrugs a shoulder. _Maybe_ is what that shrug says. Mickey sucks his lips into his mouth and stares at him.

They're quiet for a while, just looking at each other and drinking. At one point, Ian moves away from the phone, and Mickey hears him getting up his spaghetti bowl and putting it in the sink.

When he returns, he leans over again, elbows to the countertop, and he's close—closer than before. He's looking at Mickey, and he's working his mouth a little like he wants to say something but isn't sure if he should.

“What?” Mickey asks, and something about this has him nervous. He peels at the label on his beer bottle with his thumb, scratching a line from the top to the bottom.

Ian smiles—that stupid grin that makes Mickey think of embarrassing, gay shit—and in a gentle voice asks, “You ever been kissed, Mickey?”

Mickey's aware, even as he's consciously fighting against it, that his face is turning a lovely shade of tomato. He feels the blood pool up in his cheeks, and there's heat in his eyes. Embarrassment, probably. He scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip and takes a deep breath.

“The fuck you askin' that for?”

And Ian does this _thing_ with his face that makes Mickey wanna duck out of view of the phone camera. He's sort of smiling with just one side of his mouth, but he's so, so clearly looking at Mickey's _lips_ , and there's this shine to his eyes—that gentle, gentle look that goes straight to Mickey's guts.

He looks _kind_ and beautiful and there's no fuckin' way for Mickey to hide his reaction. He sets an elbow on the counter and sort of palms the lower half of his face, covering his mouth and holding back whatever words or breaths might come out of it.

Ian eyes him, and there's humor in those eyes now, and he says, clearly fighting back against a fit of laughter, “You're only making it worse.” He gestures toward Mickey, who's still running his hand over his mouth. “Like, this? Not helping.”

“What're you _talking_ about?” Mickey gets out, pulling his hand away and rubbing it on the knee of his jeans.

Ian just looks at him and shrugs. 

And for a second, he looks like he's not going to say anything—that he's just going to let Mickey stare at him in nerves and confusion. He's got his lips pursed, and he's _looking at him_.

But then, when Mickey's about to make a joke—lighten the mood—Ian says, voice steady and brave, “I want to kiss you.”

Mickey hears the ringing sound he used to get sometimes after shooting a gun. And for all it's worth, he might as well have been the one getting shot, for all he can feel is blood. Surging into his cheeks, turning his face redder than it's ever been. Warming his belly. Making his thighs tingle, his body go hot. 

_Fuck_ is what he wants to say. _Why are you fucking saying this?_ is what he wants to ask.

And he wants to fuckin' _smile_.

And he want to say _Okay. Fine. Do it._

He wants to _beg_.

Mickey can't look at Ian. He bites at the corner of his bottom lip to hold back something _happy_ —something impossibly soft yet _solid_ , real.

And when the ringing clears, all he can hear is _laughter_. Is his name.

“ _Mickey_.”

There it is again.

Mickey looks up at him, and he's leaned in real close, chin resting in the palm of his hand. “You're making it worse and worse,” he laughs, and he looks so genuine that it's hard for Mickey not to believe him, if only in this minute. 

“Every fuckin' time you blush,” he says, pausing to purse his lips for a second before continuing. “It's like...” Ian shakes himself a little, like he's mimicking a shiver. Smiles.

_How is this happening?_

He takes a deep breath in through his nose and blows it out slowly, taking his time. “What'm I supposed to say?” he asks, taking up his bottle again and just playing with the neck in his fingers.

Ian shakes his head, still smiling. Still gentle. Still _knowing_ shit, somehow—shit Mickey can't even really think to himself yet. “You don't have to say a fuckin' thing.”

\---

They say their goodbyes a few minutes later—after a little bit of nervous laughter, a little bit of Mickey floundering desperately to change the subject, and a little bit of Ian drinking the rest of his Coke with starry-eyes, so very clearly amused as fuck by him.

Mickey wants to know what it _means_.

Ian fucking Gallagher wants to kiss him, and Mickey's very nearly losing his mind over it.

It's almost nine when they get off the phone, and all Mickey can do is pace around his apartment like a _goddamned_ madman, chewing on his nail.

And the problem is that now, it's not just that Ian's made him horny as fuck. Ian's shown him his hard dick, and now Mickey's jizzing his boxers. No. It's not _just_ that. It's that _and_ the fact that Ian has stared at him and smiled at him and, while looking _beautiful as hell_ , told him that he wants to kiss him.

So now, Mickey's horny _and_ he wants to suck on Ian's bottom lip. But more than that, he wants to feel his body heat, feel his breath, smell the sweat on his skin.

He talks himself into lying down at ten, and it's as he's stretched out on his bed, Jovi purring loudly by his ear, that Ian texts him.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (10:19 PM):** Thanks for the date (?) 

**Mickey (10:19 PM):** Yeah, yeah

 **Ian (10:19 PM):** 😊

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey licks his lips. Considers.

He taps his fingers on his phone case and, figuring there's literally no point in pretending, puts his thumbs to the keyboard.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (10:21 PM):** It was fun

 **Ian (10:21 PM):** Yeah? Good.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

No one texts for several minutes, but Mickey doesn't turn off his phone screen like he usually does after a bit of radio silence. He just taps his fingers, always tapping, and watches the screen.

The dots appear, dancing, dancing, then disappear. Appear again.

Ian doesn't actually send the message until the dots have danced and stopped for nearly five minutes.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (10:30 PM):** Just out of curiosity... Would you have let me?

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

There goes his pounding heart again. He's getting a little sick of it.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (10:32 PM):** Woulda been a little hard to do it through the phone

 **Ian (10:32 PM):** 🙄 You know what I mean.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

And Mickey considers. Weighs his options. Bites his lip.

He could deny it. He could deny it and laugh it off and then everything could maybe go on as normal.

But the thing is, he _likes_ Ian. He likes him a whole fuckin' lot. And he makes him sweat, and he makes him hard, and he makes him smile. Makes his stomach clench.

_He likes him._

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (10:33 PM):** If we were in person, would you have let me kiss you?

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

He types it. Sends it.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (10:33 PM):** Yes.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

And it's simple—just one fuckin' word—stupid, really. But Ian gets him.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (10:34 PM):** 😊

 **Ian (10:34 PM):** Goodnight, Mickey Milkovich.

 **Mickey (10:34 PM):** Night

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey watches the dots dance. Dance.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (10:34 PM):** 😘

 **Mickey (10:35 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (10:35 PM):** Ahh, the romance.

 **Mickey (10:35 PM):** Go to sleep 

**Ian (10:36 PM):** I'm not tired yet.

 **Mickey (10:36 PM):** Then why'd you say goodnight

 **Ian (10:36 PM):** 'cause I wanted to be romantic, and I liked the way it sounded.

 **Mickey (10:37 PM):** Weird motherfucker

 **Ian (10:37 PM):** There you go being sweet again. 🖕 

**Mickey (10:38 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (10:38 PM):** I think we should text one day and make it a rule that we can't use that emoji.

 **Mickey (10:39 PM):** 🔫

 **Ian (10:39 PM):** The fact that it's a water pistol, though. It speaks volumes.

 **Mickey (10:39 PM):** You think you're funny

 **Ian (10:40 PM):** I think I'm hilarious. 😎

 **Mickey (10:40 PM):** 🔪

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

It's a little ridiculous how long they talk. At some point, Mickey's about to get up, his bladder fucking aching with the need to piss, and he glances at the time to find that it's nearly twelve-thirty.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (12:28 AM):** Ok, go to bed

 **Ian (12:28 AM):** Sick of me?

 **Mickey (12:28 AM):** Yes

 **Ian (12:29 AM):** Damn. Well, it was fun while it lasted. 👋

 **Mickey (12:29 AM):** 🔪

 **Ian (12:30 AM):** 🔫 Pew-pew. 

**Mickey (12:30 PM):** Gallagher

 **Ian (12:30 AM):** Milkovich?

 **Mickey (12:31 AM):** I'm leaving

 **Ian (12:31 AM):** Guess I'll allow it.

 **Mickey (12:32 AM):** You ain't allowin shit

 **Ian (12:32 AM):** But I make the rules.

 **Mickey (12:33 AM):** Fuck you's what you make

 **Ian (12:33 AM):** 😉

 **Ian (12:34 AM):** But also, yes. 😂 Goodnight. We've gotta stop.

 **Mickey (12:34 AM):** Night

 **Ian (12:34 AM):** Pew-pew.

 **Mickey (12:35 AM):** 🔪

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Ian apparently wasn't done for the night.

Mickey wakes up to piss again at four, idly checks his phone, and finds that Ian's posted a story on Instagram.

Curious, squinting into the bright screen, Mickey swipes open the app.

It's the chorus of a song Mickey's never heard of by some _one_ Mickey's never heard of, but he listens to it in the dark.

And _fuck_ , Ian Gallagher's a sappy motherfucker. 

But he smiles, and he takes a screenshot, which he then sends to Ian.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (4:14 AM):** Soft bitch

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

He goes back to sleep, and when he wakes again at seven to his alarm, Ian's responded.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (6:03 AM):** Pew.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

_I will not ask you where you came from  
I will not ask you, neither should you_

_Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips  
We should just kiss like real people do_

“Like Real People Do” by Hozier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fun facts for Chapter 7  
> 1\. The song is beautiful. I'm sure you know it, but if you don't, [please check it out](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yrleydRwWms).
> 
> 2\. During the “date,” Ian is dressed exactly how he is in [this godforsaken deleted scene](https://66.media.tumblr.com/b87e88171492d54ae85d07e861b70d4b/6606abe9f9490733-03/s640x960/ebb50b772c1fba1b18e1309f983702b1fde5630d.jpg). You can imagine that Mickey is also dressed the way he is here if you want! 
> 
> 3\. Mickey's hair is getting to be a little bit like his s7 hair because, well. I love.
> 
> 4\. I have completely omitted C*leb and Tr*vor from Ian's life. They don't exist. Well, they do exist; Ian's just never met them.
> 
> 5\. I'm not sure if this is the midpoint anymore, but we'll see. There's still _so much_ ground to cover. However, this part does mark a shift. Things be changin'.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed! I'm so overwhelmed (in a good way!) with how incredible you all are. Thank you so much for reading my story. I'm just a girl playing with Ian and Mickey dolls, really, so I'm glad you're liking the journey I'm taking them on. <333
> 
> Gray // [gallavichy](http://gallavichy.tumblr.com) // @GrayolaSays


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian and Mickey navigate new waters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Ian and Mickey are really, really into each other.
> 
> So, this is the longest chapter yet, and it's completely by accident. Hope you enjoy!

Mickey Milkovich thinks a lot of things about himself throughout his life.

When he's four, filled with the naiveté of childhood wonder, he sneakily snatches a stray cigarette from one of the half-empty packs lying around the house, young mind set on doing everything just like the rest of the Milkoviches—like his mom and dad, like his uncles and his older cousins and sometimes Colin, who's seven and already has a stash in the room he shares with Iggy. 

Only his mom would've said anything if she'd seen him, but Mickey still sneaks the cigarette into his room like a secret and closes his door.

He climbs up on his bed then and decides to try it out. After giving the cigarette a bit of a sniff first, he touches it to his bottom lip and then sticks the butt all the way into his mouth until it rests on his tongue. It tastes funny, and the paper's awkward and dry in his mouth.

Taking it out again, he tries to hold the unlit cigarette between his fingers like he's seen his family members do—between his index and middle, sometimes between his thumb and index—and then he brings it up, sticks the spit-soggy end back into his mouth, and blows like it's a party horn. 

And _all day_ afterward, he walks around his house feeling on top of the world because he thinks maybe he's _grown up_. He thinks he may be a little bit _cool_.

\---

When he's nine, there's a boy at school he picks on. His name is Dylan, and he's skinny and blond and has new front teeth that look too big for his mouth. 

Mickey kicks his desk in class, throws balls of paper at his head, and goes out of his way to mess up his art projects. He also steals his pencil almost every single day, just snatching it from his desk whenever he's in the bathroom and pocketing it. 

Mickey builds up a collection of his pencils—plain ones and ones that change color with the heat of your fingers and ones with cartoon characters on them. He keeps them in a little box in his bedroom, and he uses them when he feels like drawing, sometimes holding them and thinking about them, even. Smelling them, sometimes.

By the end of fourth grade, the box is nearly full, and it's the summer that his dad spends nearly a month in prison for “kickin' the shit out of a pole-smoker” outside a bar. 

Mickey throws his pencils away. 

He thinks maybe he's a little bit dirty. A little bit wrong.

\---

When he's thirteen, he does his first stint in juvie for knocking over a convenience store with his brothers. And he thinks it's going to give him street cred, and he thinks it'll toughen him up, maybe, in the way his dad wants him to be tough. 

He puffs up his chest and tries to seem taller than his four-foot-ten frame, and he threatens to stab a fork in the neck of any guy who looks at him funny. He makes shivs. He swears at the guards. 

They give him books to read, and there are classes he can take if he wants, but it doesn't matter; nothing really matters. 

He thinks maybe he's fucked for life.

\---

When he's twenty, he's notified that his dad's been shanked in prison, and _fuck_ , if that ain't a long time fuckin' coming.

He's the only one home then, his brothers out on a run and Mandy who-the-fuck-knows-where, and when the officer tells him, he just laughs. 

He laughs and laughs. 

And then he goes back into the house, gets shitfaced, and smashes everything even remotely breakable with a fuckin' baseball bat. With the fuckin' baseball bat that once smashed his elbow, cracked his ribs, bruised his back and thighs.

He puts holes in the walls, shatters the TV screen, the mirrors, the lamps, the radio, clears every surface, and then he swings at his dad's locked bedroom door until he destroys it. 

Until he's tired.

And then he cries. And then he laughs. 

And then he thinks that it's maybe the end. Maybe the beginning.

\---

But then, when he's twenty-six, there's Ian Gallagher. 

It's nearly five months in, and Ian's looked at him, beautiful and gentle, and he's said to Mickey, “I want to kiss you.” 

\---

They stay up late together most nights after that, texting or talking in the dark. And they don't talk about anything different from what they've always talked about, really. They talk about their days, and they make fun of each other, and they laugh a whole fucking lot. 

But there's something about doing it in the dark, as he watches the time on his alarm clock go from 10:57 to 11:54 to 12:38, that feels _new_ to Mickey.

And as he listens to Ian snuffle into the phone toward the end of their conversations, getting sleepy, about to say, “Goodnight, Mick,” sometimes adding in a stupid “Sleep tight” that makes Mickey's belly twist, he thinks that maybe, 

just maybe, 

he might be a little bit in love.

\---  
\---

He gets an email from kestrel on Sunday afternoon. The subject line is “Happy Anniversary!” and the email itself celebrates his five months using the service, thanking him for the support and asking him to fill out a survey reviewing his experiences thus far for a chance to win a $100 online gift card to a sex toy shop.

He takes a screenshot of the email and sends it to Ian.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (2:01 PM):** Does this survey impact you?

 **Ian (2:04 PM):** Yes. But I only ever hear about it if someone's complained.

 **Mickey (2:04 PM):** You get complaints

 **Ian (2:05 PM):** Glad that surprises you. 😏 

**Ian (2:05 PM):** Every once in a while, yes. Mostly people mad about shit I refuse to do with them. Horse guy, remember?

 **Mickey (2:06 PM):** Got it

 **Ian (2:06 PM):** You should do the survey, though. Maybe you'll win free sex toys.

 **Ian (2:06 PM):** If you're into that?

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

It's not like he's gonna win, but Mickey does casually search up the site.

Some of the toys weird him out—not their existences altogether but imagining himself using them—but sure, there are a couple things he'd maybe try. The masturbators are a safe bet, some meant to mimic throats, some meant to mimic anal passages.

But really, what grabs his attention is the “Anal Sex Toys” sub-section. He lingers over one of the dildos for a long enough period of time that his cheeks flame up. And it's not like it _looks like Ian's dick_ , but it's very pink, and it's got a vein running up the side, and there's something about the thickness that looks right.

Mickey's never owned a sex toy before but, well.

He shrugs and, ignoring Ian's question, opens up the survey.

It's pretty straightforward—mostly a series of one through five ratings on things such as promptness, satisfaction, and whether Mickey feels his expectations have been met. Without even thinking, he quickly rates Ian fives on everything.

There's a required written comment box at the end, but Mickey texts Ian before he completes it.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (2:15 PM):** Rated you all 1s. Sorry

 **Ian (2:15 PM):** Mickey-scale ones? The best compliment, honestly.

 **Mickey (2:16 PM):** Hey, what should I put in the comment box

 **Mickey (2:16 PM):** Like is there something they're looking for or what

 **Ian (2:17 PM):** Just be honest. I appreciate it, but you don't need to make up something for me.

 **Mickey (2:17 PM):** But if I don't make shit up it's gonna be all complaints

 **Ian (2:17 PM):** You got complaints, huh? 

**Mickey (2:18 PM):** I think I've given you a list before

 **Ian (2:18 PM):** Well, we can't have that. 

**Ian (2:20 PM):** Put “Ian is a joy to work with. I've used other professional dating services before, but he is by far the best match I've ever had in all ways. You should pay him more. Sincerely, A Very Satisfied Customer”

 **Mickey (2:21 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (2:21 PM):** 😎

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Just for fun, Mickey copies and pastes that exact comment into the box and takes a screenshot of the completed survey for Ian.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (2:23 PM):** Mmhm. I see those 5s, bitch.

 **Mickey (2:23 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (2:24 PM):** Thanks, Mickey.

 **Mickey (2:24 PM):** Whatever

 **Ian (2:25 PM):** And to show you how thankful I am... 

**Ian (2:25 PM):** Got a picture request?

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey thinks back on their last photo exchange with the underwear and the cereal—pictures that felt so scandalous back then but that seem so tame now that Mickey's getting a couple full nudes per week.

That night was the first time he'd ever sent Ian a shirtless picture of himself.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (2:26 PM):** You gonna request one of me afterwards like last time?

 **Ian (2:26 PM):** Maaaaybe. Got a problem with that?

 **Mickey (2:26 PM):** 🖕

 **Mickey (2:27 PM):** Fine.

 **Ian (2:27 PM):** 😏

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey can think of approximately twelve-hundred different pictures he'd like to see, but he limits himself to the ones that won't send him into a nervous breakdown to actually type out.

Then, he narrows down that list to things that he thinks Ian can actually do without too much trouble.

His face is hot when he puts his thumbs to the keyboard and types out his request.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (2:30 PM):** A picture of you jerking off

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey about has a nervous breakdown anyway when it takes Ian _way_ too long to respond to that.

The dots pop up after a minute and dance around, then stop. Start up again.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (2:32 PM):** Cool.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey laughs, the nerves making his arms feel weak.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (2:33 PM):** How do you want me?

 **Ian (2:33 PM):** I mean, should I be naked? Underwear? Dressed? Do you want to see my body or just my dick?

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 _Goddammit_. Mickey sucks in a breath, holds it, cheeks puffing out.

He blows it out slowly, slowly.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (2:34 PM):** Underwear 

**Mickey (2:34 PM):** Pulled down I guess

 **Mickey (2:34 PM):** Show whatever you want

 **Mickey (2:34 PM):** Your face maybe

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

And he sends them so quickly, one after the other, like he's afraid that if he pauses, he'll stop altogether.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (2:36 PM):** 👍

 **Ian (2:37 PM):** Okay. I have one more question for you: 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey rubs his hands over his face as he watches the dancing dots. 

After a minute, they stop altogether.

And his fucking phone rings. Goddammit.

“Yeah,” he answers, not even bothering to wait for it to ring more than once.

Ian's laughing, and it reminds him of their fuckin' post-dick pic conversation several weeks ago.

“Mickey,” he says, voice light and amused as hell. “This is like, really fuckin' awkward. Sorry.”

“Well--” And Mickey's sputtering a little, belly twisting up with nerves as he tries to tell him he doesn't _have_ to do this, obviously, but--

“Not _doing this_ with you,” Ian clarifies before Mickey has a chance to finish his sentence. “Just like. Typing this out to you because.” He laughs, breathy and soft. “I dunno. But anyway.”

There's a pause, like Ian's waiting for Mickey to say something. When he doesn't, he continues.

“Just wanted to know like, do you want me to be _into it_ , or do you want artistic pictures?” He pauses. Huffs a bit of a laugh. “'cause I can send you some _poses_ , or I can like, _jerk off_ -jerk off.”

 _Jesus Christ_. He sounds so fuckin' _nervous_ , his speech quick like he's unsure of himself.

“I dunno,” Mickey says, trying to sound disinterested, maybe a little bored. “Just jerk off, man.”

“But I mean.” Ian laughs again, and there's a muffle like he's rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Okay. I'm just gonna fuckin' say it. Do you wanna see my come—pre- or otherwise—or not?” 

There's a hard breath, and then, “That's what I'm gettin' at. And like, I don't want to _assume_ and then freak you out or like, push too hard too soon or something.” He snorts. “Sorry. This is fuckin' weird.”

Mickey's in the midst of trying to calm himself down, his heart slowly working its way into his throat, but he has to bite his lip at Ian's last comment.

“You don't like, _have_ to do this,” he says, voice softer than he wanted it to be. “I mean, if it's weird or.”

“No! Not like that. I just mean that I'm really used to like, guys literally telling me where to point my dick when I come, so this is just. New.” He pauses for a second. “And you're not...them. I guess.”

Mickey doesn't know if that's a bad thing or a good thing. He sniffs and thumbs at his nose. “Okay,” he says, not really knowing what he's accepting here. “Just do...your thing.” He shrugs. Sniffs again.

Ian _hm_ s. “Okay, so that's consent to like, fluids. Right?” He sounds like he's cringing as he speaks, and as much as Mickey's sweating, as much as his brain's going a mile a minute, he can't help but smile at it.

“Yeah,” he says and takes a deep breath.

“Okay. Awkward phone call over.” Ian laughs. “Sorry. I just needed to...clarify. I'm gonna go jerk off now.”

Immediately, as if someone has ripped tape off their mouths, the two of them burst into giggles like fuckin' kids in church.

“I'm hangin' up,” Mickey says after a minute, but he waits, waits for Ian to tell him “bye” before he does.

And the thing is, this is very clearly the most sexual thing Ian's ever done specifically _for_ Mickey, but those feelings of nausea—that _fear_ , that _What's going on?_ sensation—is muted somehow, is replaced by a feeling Mickey's having a difficult time giving a name.

He's nervous— _fuck_ , he's nervous—as he stretches out on his bed, waiting for the photo, but he's _smiling_ , too, because he just fuckin' _likes_ him, and they just had that stupid-ass conversation, and he just really, _really_ wants Ian to feel good and he wants to _see it_ —all the little parts of it.

And Ian wants to _kiss him_.

\---

Ian doesn't text him for nearly thirty minutes. When he does, Mickey's busy looking at his newest Instagram photo—him and Lip sitting on the front steps of the Gallagher house, smoking—and reading the comments, three of which are “I thought you quit?” and one of which is a middle finger emoji from Ian, himself.

He's smiling at it, and he double-taps to like it because, well, he _does_ like it.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (3:09 PM):** Okay. So, I took like twenty, and I used the tripod so I could use the bluetooth remote to take the pictures.

 **Ian (3:09 PM):** They're not great, but I'm gonna send you the best couple if you're still cool with it?

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Immediately, Mickey wishes he'd asked for a video, instead.

And he wants to ask Ian to send all twenty photos, but it's not like he can just _do_ that shit.

So he just texts him “Yeah” and waits for them to come in.

\---

There _are_ just a couple—Ian wasn't using that as an expression—but when Mickey sees them, he knows that if there _were_ more, he probably would've needed to be fuckin' defibrillated. 

He can hardly look at these two as it is, having to set his phone down on his bed for a second to breathe before he spirals into some semblance of hyperventilation. 

_Goddamn_ , Gallagher.

How anybody could be around this man in real life, could have sex with him, could see shit _like this_ up close and personal and _not_ want to date the fuck out of him seems a ridiculous concept.

The pictures—one taken during and one taken after—are fuckin' _beautiful_. And even though these aren't Ian's “posed” or “artistic” pictures, Mickey wants to text him, “They're plenty pretty enough for a goddamn art museum.”

As the photos were taken from a tripod, the framing's the same in both: horizontal shots that begin mid-thigh—right at the band of his navy boxers—and end about six inches past the top of Ian's head. He's lying on his bed, on that comforter of his, and the contrasting colors of the hunter green and the pale, freckly skin and ginger hair is a sight to see.

In the first photo, he's got his left forearm arm lying across his forehead, hand in a fist and grasping a tiny black remote. 

His eyes are squeezed shut like he feels _so fucking good_ , and his lips are pink and bitten and slightly parted.

There's a red flush all the way up his chest, all that pale skin turned a shade of pink, and he's got his right hand on his hard dick, which is pointing straight toward his navel.

It's clear by the slight blur that Ian's stroking, and Mickey has to breathe through his mouth as he zooms in on the picture, feeling the front of his jeans tighten as he sees the shine, the wetness at the tip of his dick.

And _fuck_ , there's more in that ginger fuzz beneath his navel, a smear of pre-come that makes Mickey want to just take off his fucking pants.

He imagines _kissing him_. Kissing that slightly parted mouth. Kissing his flushed chest, his nipples, that slight outie belly button. Dragging his lips through the wetness in the hair just below.

Mickey's getting hard at a dizzying rate. He opens his pants—unbuttons, unzips—to give himself some room before he looks at the second picture, which about causes him to go off like a fuckin' Fourth of July firecracker.

In this one, Ian's resting, really, his hand off his dick and lying along his side. The other—with the remote—his pushed back through his hair, combing it out of his face.

His eyes are still closed, but his lips are parted a little more than in the first—like he's panting after a hard workout.

And Mickey about loses it when he scans his eyes over the rest of his body. His torso is just as flushed as in the first picture, but this time, he has streaks of come up his belly—a pearly-ish clear where it skimmed his skin and white where it landed. The highest splatter is just above his navel, and he's got two other drops in that ginger fuzz and some in his pubic hair.

His dick, which is wet and pink, is softening, tilted off to the side.

And Mickey's fuckin' embarrassed, sort of, but he's so turned on that he just sticks his hand in his underwear, pulls his leaking dick out the opening of his pants, and strokes for a good forty-five seconds before going off into a punch of an orgasm that's short-lived from the lack of build-up but hard and bright. Intense. 

He groans a bit as he grips himself—feels his dick twitching in his hand as he comes and knows he's getting jizz on his shirt. But _fuck_ if it doesn't feel good. 

He laughs afterward—a tired, breathy laugh—and wipes his hand off on the fabric across his chest.

 _Goddammit_. If he can go off like this over a picture, what the fuck's he gonna do when he's actually _with_ Ian? He'll shoot the second Ian puts a hand on him.

He's too fucking old for this.

Humming, he puts his phone down, stretches out, and then takes off his shirt. Balling it up, he wipes at his dick, then his hands, and tosses it aimlessly onto his bedroom floor.

His phone _ding_ s.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (3:16 PM):** Hey.

 **Mickey (3:16 PM):** 👍👍

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey grins when he sends them because he knows Ian's gonna get a kick out of it.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (3:17 PM):** TWO thumbs up? Damn.

 **Ian (3:17 PM):** Glad you enjoyed.

 **Ian (3:17 PM):** I also enjoyed. 

**Ian (3:17 PM):** Taking them, that is. Not looking at myself.

 **Mickey (3:18 PM):** Yeah, yeah

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey puts his hand over his face for a second, imagining Ian _enjoying_ himself in motion.

And _fuck_. At this point, Mickey doesn't give a damn how nervous it makes him. Next time he has a chance, he's asking for video. The _idea of it_ makes his dick twitch again—that teenage refractory period somehow coming back through sheer force of will.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (3:18 PM):** Do I get a request now?

 **Ian (3:18 PM):** It's totally fine if not. I'll understand.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

One thing Mickey likes about Ian—one of too many fucking things—is that he always feels like he can say no.

So he's not afraid to play along, this time. And maybe Ian'll ask him for something he's not ready to give. But he can always _say no_.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (3:19 PM):** Whatcha want?

 **Ian (3:20 PM):** I very obviously want to see your dick.

 **Ian (3:20 PM):** In any form that you want to show me.

 **Ian (3:20 PM):** IF you want to show me.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

There is goes again.

The twitch. The pounding heart. He opens his mouth to breathe.

Types.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (3:21 PM):** Can I send you a picture later

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

And he texts this because well, he got most of the come off, but there's still a little bit of wetness gathered in his slit and you can sort of _tell_ he recently had an orgasm if you know what you're lookin' at.

He's flushed as fuck, his skin hot with embarrassment because he's fairly certain Ian'll see right through him, but. _Fuck_.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (3:21 PM):** Yeah, of course.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Mickey had sort of expected him to send along a smirking emoji.

That he doesn't, though, is a relief.

They talk for just a few minutes more—Ian telling Mickey he's scheduled for three night shifts in a row that week and Mickey asking him questions about how that fucks with his sleep—and then they say their goodbyes.

Mickey saves Ian's pictures to his phone and spends a couple minutes just _looking_ at them before getting up to do some shit around the apartment. 

Fuck. He wants to _devour him_.

\---  
\---

Mickey's always been pretty good with his hands, and recently, he's started thinking about fixing up his apartment a bit. 

It's not rundown, but it's an old building, and well, Mickey hasn't exactly been paying much attention to the way it _looks_ , not caring so much about whether it's nicely decorated or whether there's shelving or storage. There are some water stains on the ceiling, some miscellaneous marks on the walls—scuff marks, grease spots in the kitchen—and he's just been thinking that maybe he can put a little work in.

So, after getting approval from Mrs. Callaghan, he picked up a few buckets of paint and some painting materials at the hardware store, and he's been spending spare Saturdays and Sundays on the walls. He figures he'll do the walls, and then he'll order some floating shelves, and maybe get a clock or some artwork and shit.

He always used to decorate his childhood bedroom with posters and drawings. The completely bare walls of his apartment look a little naked in comparison.

Today, he puts down a drop cloth in the living room and starts on the walls. He's painting them “Dreamscape Gray,” and then he's gonna go over the dingy baseboards with white. And as he paints, listening to Anthrax and constantly shooing Jovi away, he thinks about Ian's nervous voice when he asked him to clarify what he wanted, and he thinks about his eyes squeezed shut with pleasure, and he feels _inspired_.

\---

He showers at around seven—after he's finished with the initial coat in the living room—and then, steeling himself, takes the picture for Ian. 

He doesn't really wanna look at it afterward, as there's something about taking a picture like this that embarrasses the fuck out of him. But he glances at it long enough to increase the contrast a little so that he's looking his best.

Mickey didn't get his face in the picture, but he does include everything from the chest to the thighs.

He doesn't have the deep-cut v-lines like Ian, and though he's in decent shape, he's just a bit softer around the middle due to not working out all the time like the ginger motherfucker. But he looks fine. 

And well, his dick is what it is. Again, it's _decent_. Average-sized in every way.

He's soft in the picture, and he's just kind of...hanging out. His pubic hair's damp from his shower and a bit mussed from the towel dragging over it, and he looks at the image and hopes that maybe Ian'll like it. 

Whether you're interested in someone or not, it's probably pretty normal to want to see what a person's dick looks like—especially if you know you're gonna fuck them one day. Mickey thinks about that as he attaches the picture to their iMessage conversation.

But Ian said _he wanted to kiss him_.

He looked at him and glanced at his lips and said he wanted to kiss him.

And Mickey _gets it_. He may be inexperienced, but he _knows_ he and Ian are. Well. He knows that people probably don't tell other people they want to kiss them unless they have certain intentions.

But it's hard to accept, isn't it—this idea that there's a guy who maybe kind of likes Mickey. Who maybe kind of likes him in a way that means he wants to kiss him. And it's doubly-difficult because Mickey's still having that $65.99 drafted out of his bank account every Saturday at midnight.

And they never say anything about it.

So Mickey knows, _he knows_ —he isn't that fuckin' dense—but he can't help but get that sour feeling in his stomach when he wonders what would happen if he cancelled. 

What if he cancelled, and what if he tried to text Ian on his personal cell and received no response? What if he cancelled and everything _changed_?

What if Ian's just really fucking good at his job?

He doesn't think that—he _doesn't_. It's just. It makes his stomach hurt a little, sometimes.

But _Ian wants to kiss him_. And Mickey wants to _touch him everywhere_.

He sends the picture.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (7:49 PM):** MICKEY.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

He's standing in the bathroom, and he's still naked, and he just leans over the sink and laughs.

And, okay. He gets why Ian wants feedback on his dick pics. 

Mickey sighs, rolls his eyes, and tries for humor.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (7:50 PM):** 👍 or 👎?

 **Ian (7:50 PM):** 👍👍👍👍

 **Ian (7:51 PM):** Yes. Four.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

And he's just about to make a snarky comment—has his thumbs to the keyboard, even, and is typing out the first couple of words, when Ian sends another text that makes him erase every fucking word he's typed.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (7:52 PM):** You're beautiful.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

“Shut up,” Mickey types, and he's still hunched over the sink, and he looks up into the mirror to see that his face is getting red—chest is getting splotchy with a full-body flush.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (7:53 PM):** Shut up

 **Ian (7:53 PM):** Never ever ever.

 **Ian (7:53 PM):** So, y'know, that's a thing you can send me whenever you fuckin' want.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

He smiles as he moves into his room and pulls on a T-shirt and a pair of sweats. 

\---  
\---

Mickey thinks sometimes, when they're talking, that he wants to tell Ian things.

Ian's soft with him sometimes.

For all their joking and arguing and Ian apparently finding endless amusement in sending Mickey smirking emojis, they get a little quieter on the phone sometimes.

They didn't talk Monday, and Ian worked nights Tuesday through Thursday, so Friday's the first night in a while they're able to do their nighttime chats in the dark.

Ian's a little wired because his sleep schedule's thrown off—having worked three nights in a row, immediately followed by his normal day shift today—and he's texting Mickey links to Spotify playlists while talking to him on speakerphone.

“Your taste in music sucks,” Mickey says, pulling off his shirt and climbing into bed.

“Mm. You liked that Hozier song, didn't you?”

Mickey yawns and stretches out under the covers. “That what song?”

“Our first date song.”

“I'm too tired for this.”

“Also”—and Ian turns up the attitude _real_ quick—“You listen to like, _dad_ music.”

Mickey scoffs. “I fuckin' _do not_.”

“Explain to me why I'm looking at your Spotify account right now and you've saved... Let's see.” He begins to read. “'90s Rock Anthems,' ' 80s Hard Rock,' 'Power Ballads,' '00s Metal Classics,' 'Rock Me UP!,' and then. Well, this one I'm cool with. 'I Love My West Coast Classics.'”

“How'd you find my fuckin' Spotify account?”

“Rookie mistake. You used your Instagram username. I searched you up.”

“Stalkin' my ass?”

“Stalkin' somethin'.” Ian chuckles then, and Mickey hears him shuffle around a bit, like he's decided to switch focus away from complaining about Mickey's musical taste and is now going to do something productive. “Anyway,” he says. “You're wrong, as usual.”

“Fuck you.” Mickey rolls over and looks at the clock. “Also, it's almost one. Get your ass in the bed.”

“I know, I know. _Fuck_ , I hate when I work nights.”

Mickey twists onto his back and pulls one arm behind his head. “Does that not like, mess with your bipolar?”

Ian takes a deep breath, and Mickey hears the slow stream of static in his ear. “It can. Probably not something as occasional as _this_. But yeah. Bad sleep habits can increase the risk of me going manic.” He pauses his speech, and Mickey can hear water running, like he's at a sink. “My boss knows that. That's why I'm scheduled for days, mostly, since it's easier to maintain.”

“Well, fuckin' tell her not to put you on nights again.”

“Mickey.” That soft fuckin' voice. “I'm helping cover for Ellie. She's on her honeymoon.”

“And now you're workin' seven days in a row.”

“It's just this once.” Mickey can hear the gentle smile in Ian's voice. “And now I'm done with the coverage, so the rest of my shifts are days. I'm good.”

Mickey sighs, and his voice is stupidly soft—softer than he wants, softer than he can _believe_ , really. “But didn't you say being overworked can trigger stuff? Like, stress can make you go manic or whatever?” 

“Mm. Yeah.” There's a rustling sound, and Ian's voice is suddenly further away, like he's put the phone down. “But like I said. Occasional stuff's not gonna do anything. I'm careful, and I know myself pretty well now. Know all my triggers and how to manage.”

Mickey rubs his hands over his eyes. “Whatever.”

There's a yawn, and Mickey's glad to hear it. “I'm gettin' in bed,” Ian says, and his voice is louder now.

Mickey hears the squeak of bedsprings and then the click of a lamp being switched off.

And now here they are, whispering in the dark.

“Thank you,” Ian murmurs, and it's soft—so soft. “For being. Y'know. Concerned.”

Mickey sniffs and thumbs at his nose. “I don't like you gettin' like, stressed out and shit, man.”

“I know. But.” He's quiet for a second, and Mickey can hear him shifting around in bed. “Just trust me, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“And I can like.” Ian blows out a breath, and then his voice is even softer. “If you want, I can text you some stuff about it? Just like, common things to look for, and I can tell you some personal stuff to look for with me, maybe? In case I don't realize?”

Mickey shrugs. He's quiet, but then he says, “Yeah. Okay.”

“Cool. I'll do it tomorrow during my shift if it's slow.”

Jovi jumps up on the bed then and, as he's wont to do, wanders over to Mickey's pillow and curls up at the top of his head.

Mickey smiles and, thinking Ian'll like it, holds the phone near him so he can listen to the purr.

Ian makes an endeared sound and laughs breathily. “Love that Jovi. He sleep with you?”

“Most nights, yeah. He's on my fuckin' head right now. Sounds like a motor.”

“Mm. Probably a good sleeping buddy, though. Like your own personal sleep machine.”

Mickey chuckles, reaching a hand up to pat at the furry gremlin tucked against his skull. “Could be worse, I guess. At least he don't snore.”

“Do _you_ snore?”

“I dunno. Never watched myself sleep, so.”

There's a sound, like the start of a voice that immediately cuts itself off. Then, silence. And Mickey knows, he _knows_ Ian almost asked him if the people he's slept with have ever commented. That was the most natural follow-up, right?

Mickey bites his lip for a second, and then decides to have mercy on Ian and move the conversation along. “Do you?”

There are some breath sounds, then, “Nope.”

“Of course not.”

Ian _hmm_ s, and Mickey hopes he's getting sleepy. 

He smiles a little fondly—a little softly because of the fuckin' dark—and asks, “You passin' out soon, sleepy-face?”

“Mm. In a while, yeah.”

They listen to each other breathe. Mickey should probably go—he should probably let Ian get some rest because he's only gonna get five hours of sleep as it is, but—

“Can I tell you something?” Ian asks, and he's got that gentle voice again—that inflection that only comes with a smile. 

Mickey bites at the corner of his lip for for a second. Releases. “What's up?” And _fuck_ if his voice ain't as soft as Ian's.

Ian takes a deep breath in. Slow breath out. “You make me feel good.”

He lets that linger for a while, and Mickey doesn't know what to say. His heart hammers.

“I mean,” he continues—slow, so slow. “You know my shit, and you're like.” He pauses with a quick, breathy laugh. “Sorry, I have to use the word. You're _sweet_ about it.”

Mickey _snorts_ , and Ian tells him to shut up.

“ _Anyway_. I just wanted you to know that. Sorry if it was sappy or whatever.”

The corners of Mickey's lips turn up, and he taps his index finger against the back of his phone case when he murmurs, “I dunno. I like talkin' to you, and.” He sniffs, a nervous habit. “You're.” Mickey pauses for a minute to inhale-exhale. “I dunno. You're the _only_ person I've ever...” He closes his eyes. Presses the space between his thumb and index finger over them. Drags his hand over his face. “I dunno what I'm saying but. I like...” He breathes. “You.”

And if he could get out just _one fucking sentence_. He sounds like a bumbling fucking idiot, and he squeezes his eyes shut immediately after he closes his mouth on the “you.” Runs his hand over his face and presses against his eyelids.

But Ian's kind about it, and he _gets it_ , Mickey knows.

“I like you, too,” he whispers, and it's soft—so soft Mickey barely even hears it.

It's nothing Ian hasn't texted him before, but hearing it in his voice does something to Mickey. Makes his belly warm. Makes him breathe out his mouth again in soft little pants.

And at that moment, breaking the tension so sweetly, Ian yawns, this loud, exaggerated yawn. 

Mickey grumbles at him to “go the fuck to sleep.”

“Yeah,” Ian says through another yawn, this one softer. “You too. _Fuck_ , I have to get up in five hours.”

“ _Go_ ,” Mickey says. “Night.”

Ian gets all snuffly for a minute as he cuddles down into his blankets. “Night, Mick,” he says, and Mickey can _hear_ the smile.

\---  
\---

Mickey doesn't usually remember his dreams. He knows that he has them, knows that sometimes he has fuckin' nightmares that cause him to wake up with a wet pillow, with crusty eyes from drying tears, and he knows that sometimes he has dreams about sex, causing him to wake up horny as hell and just a few strokes away from orgasm.

But ever since Ian sent him the pictures of him jerking off, Mickey's been _remembering_ shit. And fuck if he isn't having the most intense sex dreams of his life.

For someone who's never fucked a dude, his body sure as hell thinks it knows what it feels like.

It's Sunday and exactly two weeks since the pictures, and Mickey's dreaming about getting fucked within an inch of his life.

And obviously, with it being a dream, the sensations are weirdly misplaced—thrusts into his ass translating only to intense sensations in his dick—but it feels so fucking good he thinks he'll die.

Ian's there, and he's covering Mickey's body, and Mickey can fucking _smell_ him, can smell the sweat as his runs his mouth all over his hot, wet neck. And Ian's thrusting into him—hard—and _groaning_ , and it's beautiful, so beautiful. 

Mickey pushes out “Oh fuck, oh fuck,” and he feels the bones of Ian's knees squeeze at his thighs, somehow, and he scrabbles at his back, fingers slipping through the sweat there, and there's the distinct sensation of Mickey trying to scratch his skin but not being able to due to his too-short nails.

“Kiss me. Fucking _kiss me_ ,” Ian says, and Mickey tilts his head back and pants and pants, and suddenly there's a pressure at his mouth and a spark in his dick, and—

Mickey wakes up with his hand down the front of his boxers, moving his hips like he's trying to thrust upward into a body thrusting downward into him.

And he doesn't even think. He kicks the covers off, removes his boxers, and jerks off into them like the world's ending, like he's dangling off the edge of a cliff and he only has two options: to come or to fall to his fucking death.

His dick's so fuckin' _wet_ from apparently nearly leaking himself dry throughout the dream, and there is absolutely no lube necessary as he grasps himself and strokes at a fevered pace.

He'd been on edge for so long, his balls tight and his orgasm _right there_ , that it only takes a minute for him to hit his peak. And when he does, he squeezes his eyes shut and thinks about Ian's bare cock in him, thinks about Ian's come—all that beautiful wetness that was on his belly— _inside_ him and on him and so, so sticky, and he imagines his mouth and his hot breath and his teeth against his lips and _fuck, fuck, fuck_.

Mickey makes a sound when he comes this time—like he's in fucking _pain_ , almost—and he can't help but rub at his nipples and scrabble against his belly when the tingles hit him hardest—that sharp edge of orgasm that makes him see 

fucking

 _stars_.

He's panting and panting, and he tries to catch most of the come in his boxers but still misses a bit, which gets him beside his navel.

He mops it up afterward, wipes off his dick, and breathes like he's just run a marathon, like the world was point-two seconds away from ending and he saved it, somehow, or like he _was_ on the edge of that cliff and was pulled back at the last second.

“Oh my God,” he whispers, rubbing at his face with his clean hand.

He's a fucking _wreck_. Ian Gallagher's gonna destroy him.

And he's thinking about that—thinking, as he feels the dopamine and the oxytocin wash over him, about Ian after sex, and whether he's soft when it's over, and whether he likes to kiss, likes to touch—when his fucking phone goes off with the FaceTime tone.

\---

Mickey has a bit of a mini-heart attack as he scrambles, giving himself a once-over to make sure he hasn't come on his fuckin' _neck_ or something, tossing the soiled boxers on the floor, and pulling the covers up to his chest.

His heart's pounding like a drum and his stomach's twisting when he sees that Ian wants to fucking video chat with him during the _goddamn_ day. While he's still in fucking _bed_.

And he's considering not answering because, well, he's literally just had an orgasm, but it's fucking _Ian_ and Ian wants to kiss him and he just really, really wants him to.

Jell-o arms in full swing, Mickey accepts the call.

\---

Once the video connects, he sees that Ian's _also_ in bed, and his heart starts crawling up his throat.

Goddammit. He looks so fucking _sleepy_ , his eyes slightly puffy, and he's all stubbly and his hair's sticking up on his pillow.

And he's shirtless.

The sunlight's coming in from the window above his bed, and he just looks so stupidly pretty, all golden and freckled, his ginger hair bright.

“Morning, Mickey,” he murmurs, and Mickey doesn't know why he FaceTimed him now, as he so, so clearly _just_ woke up. His voice is rough, and Mickey thinks that's probably the first thing he's said all day.

“Why'd you call me so fuckin' early?” Mickey asks, groaning a little and stifling a yawn.

“It's _noon_.”

Mickey takes a peek at the clock. He hums. “Whatever.”

They stare at each other for a minute—just looking. Ian's freckles seem extra-prominent today, the light brightening his skin so that the bits of extra melanin stand out more. His eyelashes are extra gingery. Those fuckin' eyelid freckles. Mickey looks at them. He smiles.

“Hey,” Ian says sweetly, and Mickey wants to kiss his fucking face off.

He runs a hand over his mouth and murmurs back, “Hey.”

It's in this moment that he gets a good look at his own image in the corner of the screen. And well, fuck. Because the morning light's brightening him up, as well, only it's also highlighting the post-orgasm flush of his face, the blotchiness of his neck and the top of his chest. His hair's a mess. There's a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

He looks fucking _wrecked_.

Ian's _gotta_ see that. There's no way he doesn't.

And Mickey thinks if he didn't a minute ago, he definitely does now, as he's suddenly got this amused look on his face as he watches Mickey rub at his hair a little bit in an attempt to fix it.

“You good?” Ian asks, and _fuck_ , that _look_ in his eye.

Mickey rolls his eyes and rubs his thumb over his bottom lip.

“What'd you call for?” he asks, and in his stupid, _stupid_ nerves it sounds gruffer than he intends.

“Mm.” Ian stretches—this groaning, yawning, arms-over-the-head stretch that sends Mickey's body into overdrive. “Just woke up. Wanted to see you.”

Mickey runs his top teeth over his bottom lip. “You off today?”

“ _Yes_. And today's my day off with the app, too, so I'm fucking _free_.” He yawns again, and Mickey almost wants to tell him to go back to sleep.

Ian _hm_ s and continues with, “You had a good morning?”

Mickey's heart stops. He gasps for air a bit, just a bit, hoping Ian doesn't see it. “Only been up for like fifteen minutes, so.”

Ian eyes him, and there's this glimmer, this quirk of his mouth, and Mickey wants to hang up.

“What?” he asks, though he fucking _knows_.

Ian smiles, and he's being really gentle and kind about it, but there's this edge, this heat in his eyes that Mickey's never before seen. “Nothing,” he says, before _snorting_ with laughter because he has absolutely no chill whatsoever.

“What's wrong with you?” Mickey tries to sound gruff. He mostly sounds nervous.

“Just.” Ian sighs, face undeniably happy, amused as fuck, and grins. “I'm just having a good morning.”

“You're still in fuckin' bed.”

“I know.”

They stare at each other for a minute, and Ian's smile is just so contagious that Mickey has to return it—just a bit. 

Finally, Ian asks, voice soft like he's anxious, “If I dare you to do something, will you do it?”

Mickey swipes his forearm over his eyes. “What.”

“I'm not gonna dare you until you promise me you'll do it.” He smiles for a second—that huge, closed-mouth one—before adding, “It's a triple-dog dare, by the way.”

“Are you fucking _high_?”

“I'm having a _great_ morning, Mickey.”

Mickey watches him, narrows his eyes as he stares at those freckles and that upturned mouth. Ian's having fun, here.

He breathes in and out through his nose, slowly. “Whatever. What's your dare?”

Ian works his mouth for a minute, like he's thinking of a way to best phrase what he's going to say before he says it. “I triple-dog dare you to show me your dick.”

And he makes this _face_ like he can't believe he just said it—sort of scrunches up his nose and shows his front teeth for a second—before suddenly adding in, “I'll show you mine right after. Promise.”

“So this is a game of 'You Show Me Yours and I'll Show You Mine?'”

“Mmhm!” Ian says, nodding, and he seems so stupidly happy and _dorky_ that Mickey somehow wants to leave and yet also wants to be there with him—climb on top of him, touch those fucking collarbones and those freckled shoulders.

“Gallagher, what're you doing?” he asks, exasperated-sounding, because _really_ , this is what he wants to know more than anything.

Ian smiles, that amused playfulness turning down a little to make more room for sweetness. “It's cool if you don't want to, Mickey. I'm just.” He takes a deep breath. “Sorry. I woke up and was like, really um.” There's an awkward, breathy laugh, and he runs the back of his hand over his mouth. “Sorry. Nevermind, we can just--”

“What?”

And Mickey _knows_. Something about the way this whole thing's playing out is making it so very obvious to Mickey what Ian was about to say. What he was about to suggest. 

His heart's pounding, and he feels a twist in his stomach, but. Well. It's _Ian_.

“Tell me,” he says, voice serious.

Ian narrows his eyes for a second, thinking. “I was thinking maybe we could...” He shrugs, getting a hand up and scratching at his chest absentmindedly. “Do something. Together. Or.”

 _I already did_ is what he wants to say, but he's too busy trying to breathe.

“It's fine,” Ian says, hand stopping. “No big deal. I was just thinking.”

“I mean.” Mickey starts. And is he going to _say it_? Is he going to _say_ it?

He says it.

“I sorta already, uh.” He breathes in deep. Bites his lip. He can't look at the screen, eyes focused instead on the wall, then the ceiling.

Ian _laughs_ then, and it's so infectious that Mickey has to look at him. 

“Yeah,” Ian says, pausing to laugh again. “I kinda thought so based on.” He waves his hand around, indicating Mickey's face.

“Fuck you,” Mickey says, cheeks flaming up.

Ian smiles at him. “Well, can you... Again?”

Mickey looks at him, and he _knows_ he looks like he's about to lose his mind. He's red and his skin's hot and his eyes are darting around everywhere, afraid to land on anything in particular. 

Ian's asking him about his _goddamn_ refractory period.

He ignores the question and instead, poses one of his own: “What were you wantin' to do?”

“Mm.” Ian runs a hand over his face, nervous. “I was thinkin' we could like, jerk off. Together.”

Once again, Mickey has to open his mouth in order to breathe properly.

“I mean,” Ian continues. “No pressure. I just. I woke up turned on as hell, and I was wonderin' if you maybe wanted to try something.” He shrugs. “Thought I'd ask.”

“How do we start?” Mickey asks—slowly, body feeling weak with nerves. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and bites down.

The right side of Ian's mouth pulls up in a smile. “Really?”

“Yeah. I mean.” Mickey pauses. “Yeah.”

They look at each other for a few seconds before breaking into twin laughs. And Ian looks so beautiful and happy, his face turning red and his eyes gleaming.

“Okay. So.” Ian chuckles again, breathily. “I triple-dog dare you to show me your dick.”

\---

He forgets about the potential for come in his pubes when he nervously pushes away the covers. But, well. Ian fuckin' knows what he did fifteen minutes ago because he fuckin' _told him_.

Mickey takes a deep breath, heart hammering so hard he wonders if Ian can hear it. He taps the screen to flip the camera and aims the phone at his dick.

Ian starts breathing through his mouth when he sees it, and fuck if that ain't a confidence booster.

His cock's plump, still, and he can already feel the stirrings again, those tingles starting somewhere inside him and flowing outward. Mickey doesn't look too closely, just sort of moves his dick with his hand for a second to give Ian a better angle, but he knows he's probably still got a bit of wetness gathered in his slit.

He pulls back the phone but leaves the camera flipped, aiming it at the wall so Ian doesn't have to see how fucking _nervous_ he looks right now.

“Okay, okay,” Mickey grumbles, and he laughs—so, so nervous. “Your turn.”

Ian's smiling. “Just, fair warning, I guess. I'm. A little further along in the game than you, so.”

Mickey sucks in a quick breath.

And the fact that Ian's live dick is now on his phone screen sends a surge of blood downward.

He's _definitely_ hard—that vein pronounced and his dick pink and pointing firmly northeast. There's just the littlest bit of wetness at the head, and Mickey about loses his fucking mind right there when Ian takes hold of his dick and squeezes, like he's trying to milk the pre-come out of the slit.

He's glad Ian can't see his face right now because he's _gotta_ look fuckin' wrecked, fuckin' strung out, even. And he wants to _laugh_ because Ian had asked, in all seriousness, if he could go again.

Yeah. He can go again.

After a minute, Ian brings his phone up and flips the front-camera back on. He sets it down, propped up on a pillow maybe, in such a fashion that Mickey can see his head lying on the pillow and his face when he turns to the side.

In an effort to be fair, Mickey does the same, hand shaking, breath coming out in stutters as he gets everything set up.

And it's _awkward as fuck_ for a minute, the two of them just looking at each other, seemingly at a loss for words. But then Ian's smiling at him, and then he's laughing, and suddenly they're both giggling into their pillows like a couple of misbehaving teenagers.

And they're _both_ flushed, and they _both_ look visibly nervous, maybe a little embarrassed, maybe a lot happy, and really, it could be worse.

As their laughter settles, Mickey smiles.

He can really only see from Ian's head to his chest, but at some point, in the midst of their staring and smiling, Mickey can see his arm start to move below the frame of the camera, his bicep flexing with it.

Ian's mouth opens slightly, just enough to get little puffs of air out, and Mickey watches as his eyes slowly close.

He _can't stop_ watching, really, even when he puts his own hand on himself, squeezing, massaging the base with his fingers.

He feels like he _can't breathe_ , and he can't fucking _believe_ this his happening.

Ian laughs a little, and he opens his eyes for a minute, giving Mickey a grin like they're in on some great inside joke together, and there's something about that smile, something about Ian's face in that moment, that breaks all the stupid, nervous tension.

Mickey _snorts_ with laughter and has to reach out to hold the phone to keep it from toppling from the shaking of the mattress.

“Oh my _God_ , Mickey,” Ian says, putting on a faux-irritated voice and pulling his hand up to adjust his own phone. “I'm tryin' to jerk off to you right now.”

“Fuck you, man,” Mickey says, voice light, and he's smiling because he's fucking _happy._

And something about this moment—right here, right now, this stupid moment where Ian's pretending to be affronted and Mickey's being grumpy in response—makes his belly _twist_. Something about Ian's face, how he's looking at him like _he wants to kiss him_ gives him enough courage to put his hand back on his dick and start to stroke.

He doesn't know how much of his arm is visible to Ian, but Ian can clearly tell what he's doing now, as his own arm starts up again with the slow, measured movements.

And for the longest time, they just stare at each other, _breathing_.

They get amped up pretty quickly after that, their breaths coming in louder and faster. At one point, Ian stops, twists, and Mickey can hear him opening up the drawer to his nightstand.

He holds up a tube of Astroglide for Mickey to see before squeezing some out on his palm and reaching back down again to apply it. And it must feel fucking _good_ to him because after a second, he makes this _uh_ sound—barely voiced, mostly breath—like he's been kicked in the back.

Mickey blows out a breath at that, hand speeding up, and at this point, he's gotta close his fucking eyes because it's too much to _see_ him while this is happening.

He thinks about Ian's dick—how hard it was, how pink and just the littlest bit wet—and he has to bite his lip to keep from making noise. And then there's Ian, and he's making these sighing sounds, all breath, really, all punches of air.

Mickey opens his eyes for a second, and something about that does him in because Ian's looking at him, and the second their eyes meet, Ian squeezes his eyes shut and seemingly curls into himself, bending a bit to tuck his chin against his chest.

“Fuck, _fuck_ ,” he whispers, and then _fuck_ , there it goes.

Mickey can tell he's coming, as his breath gets louder than before and his mouth opens. The movement of his arm gets fast, fast, then slow, then stops, and he's _shaking_.

And that's the end for Mickey. 

He feels the pulse, feels the surge of wetness at the head followed by such intense, spreading pleasure that he's worried he's moaning at it, worried he's making _noise_ , and everything's just white behind his eyes, and everything's bright and hot and fucking _warm from wetness_ as he comes in three hard surges followed by two smaller ones.

And he's panting, panting as he comes to, as the tingles recede and are replaced by such delicious warmth and calm, and it's in this moment that he hears Ian _laughing_.

“ _Dammit_ , Mickey,” he's saying, and Mickey takes a second to breathe, barely registering Ian's words.

He turns his head and, with a laugh of his own, realizes he'd knocked the phone over as he'd come. He picks it up and runs a hand over his flushed face as he pants and pants and looks at Ian.

“I _literally_ missed the best part, motherfucker!” Ian's saying, and Ian's _laughing_ , and he looks so fucking _delighted_ , like this thing that's just happened is the _best_ fucking thing.

Mickey just _looks at him_ , and he feels so warm and soft that he thinks he's a little out of control of himself, like he might be smiling like a fucking idiot and he doesn't even know it.

Ian smiles, _so happy_ , and murmurs, “I can't believe you.”

“Like I did it on purpose.”

“Mmhm. Sure.”

“You're a dick.” Mickey laughs, and he looks now at himself in the corner of the screen and sees that he's grinning like a stupid kid with a crush, showing his teeth, eyes crinkling. _Fuck_.

“Oh, _I'm_ a dick.” Ian takes a minute to show off that _grin_ of his before continuing. “Pretty sure I let you see me come, Milkovich.” He winks before stretching out to grab something from the nightstand.

Mickey sucks at his teeth and, upon realizing that Ian's grabbed a handful of Kleenex to wipe himself off, hunts around for his boxers to do the same.

And if this isn't the most awkward moment, the two of them quietly cleaning themselves up, faces still red, still breathing hard.

Mickey bites his lip when he's done. Leans back onto the pillows and runs a hand through his hair, which is _really_ getting a little too long on top.

“Would you believe me...” Ian starts, lying back down himself and holding the phone above his face. “Would you believe me if I told you that I've _literally_ never done that before?”

Mickey narrows his eyes. “You do that all the fuckin' time.”

“Not like _that_ , though.” Ian shrugs, and he looks a little sheepish, maybe, his neck and face blotching up. “I get myself off for other guys all the fuckin' time. That was.” He sniffs. “That was just like, straight up horny shit.”

“ _Horny shit_. Really.” Mickey laughs at that, scratching at his neck. “What the fuck's that even mean?”

“It _means_ that I was really fuckin' into that.”

“Got it.” Mickey's getting so red he can hardly stand it.

“And there you go again with that blush.”

Mickey flips him off. “Shut the fuck up. I'm gonna hang up.”

“Nope.” Ian closes his eyes and scrunches up his face, the fuckin' cute-ass motherfucker. “Not done talkin' to you yet, bitch.”

Mickey yawns. He's a little worn out, actually, even though he hasn't even left his bed yet for the day. Two orgasms in the span of less than an hour's enough to do it to him.

“Mm. So.” Ian looks at him for a minute. Sniffs. “Was that okay?”

And he doesn't really even need to think about because yeah. It was really fucking okay.

He nods. Tries not to blush. “Yeah.”

Ian smiles at him, and he looks so _fond_ , so _happy_ and satisfied and just, _good_. “Glad to hear it.”

They look at each other for a minute, and Mickey wants more than anything to just touch him.

He's not ready to _meet_ yet, he doesn't think. He's not ready yet for a lot of shit that comes along with being alone in a room with someone, but he fucking _likes_ him and he _wants_ him and he _desires_ him.

“I'll let you go,” Ian's saying, breaking up his thought process. “I'm starving.”

“Got those fuckin' cereal cravings again?”

“You know it.” He pauses, pretending to contemplate something serious. “Mm. Maybe some toast with Nutella.”

Mickey's actually really into that, so he just shrugs and puts on a grumpy look.

“Okay,” he says, sitting up to get out of bed, himself. He feels his pubes pull when he moves, and he can smell his pits. He needs a shower in the worst way. “Go.”

“Tonight, then? Same time as usual?”

Mickey scoffs. “If you don't make me watch those fuckin' videos again.”

The last time they talked, Ian had spent the better part of an hour sending him funny TikToks. 

Ian holds up three fingers. “Scout's honor.” He pauses. Smiles. “Just one, maybe. I saw one on Instagram earlier that was kinda funny.”

“No. Hang up.”

“Ahh. Mickey, Mickey. So sweet. So kind.”

“Fuck off.”

Laughing, Ian sits up and then scratches at the stubble at his jaw. “Bye,” he says, and he's suddenly smiling, so _happy_ , but he's also looking at Mickey like he wants to _kiss him_.

Mickey lets himself smile, and he lets himself blush. “See ya,” he says, and he thinks his eyes are giving him away.

\---

He sees the message when he gets out of the shower, and he has to sit with it for a minute—has to sit cross-legged on his bed, naked, and cradle his phone in both hands as he looks at the words over and over again.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (1:21 PM):** I'm so fucking into you, Mickey Milkovich.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

And he'll be reading them over and over again, still, at random moments throughout the day. When he's eating lunch. When he's painting the bathroom. When he's back from his jog, sweaty and aching.

And tonight, he'll talk to Ian until one again, and Ian might send him those stupid fucking videos, and he might be soft with him again, say “Mickey” in that voice that makes his belly twist, and well. 

He's gonna let him. He's gonna fucking let him do it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun facts for Chapter 8  
> 1\. Every time Ian says “Mickey” in a soft way, I want you to hear it how Ian says his name in “I, Ian, take you, _Mickey_.” Because it's that. Complete with the lil smile. Love to those in the comments last chapter who picked up on it!
> 
> 2\. Ian is _not_ having a bipolar episode in this chapter. The section where he and Mickey discuss his sleep/stress is not foreshadowing—though I love some foreshadowing—and is, instead, just meant to show care and softness on Mickey's part. I realized after writing this that the juxtaposition of that with the last section maybe comes across as hypersexuality. But it's not. Just good old fashioned horny. 
> 
> 3\. Ian makes really great Spotify playlists. He listens to a little bit of everything, and he's been sending Mickey some of his workout mixes but Mickey ain't having it. (Except he totally is and listens to them when he jogs.) I originally had a line in here where Ian tries to get Mickey to listen to The Weeknd's newest album.
> 
> 4\. On that note, this fic does technically take place like, now. But it's corona-free.
> 
> Thank you all so, so much for your continued support. You're amazing, and I'm having so much fun talking with you in comments and on Tumblr. I'm glad you're enjoying the story. A little bit of bad news: I will not be posting another update until next Saturday (so no Wednesday update) because I have some things to do next week that will take up a lot of my time. However, I will definitely see you Saturday for another probably super-long chapter. Sorry about that! <3
> 
> Love you guys! Take care.
> 
> Gray // [gallavichy](http://gallavichy.tumblr.com) / @GrayolaSays


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Questions are answered. Fortunes are read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which a problem is solved.
> 
> I am back once again with the longest chapter to date. I hope you enjoy! At this point in the fic, time is going to slow a bit, with chapters covering about a week each instead of a month.

He can't get it out of his head, really.

The jerk-off session. Ian's sounds—those harsh breaths, those punch-in-the-back _uh_ s, the gasps—the experience of watching him come undone, that intense moment of vulnerability, that face with those eyes squeezed shut. That bliss. That pleasure. 

“I'm so fucking into you, Mickey Milkovich.”

His stomach cramps at it, this excited, nervous twist that gives him a racing heart and quick breaths and those goddamn Jell-o arms and this energy surging through him that makes him want to fucking _run_. That makes him want to listen to loud music and makes him want to laugh and scream and talk to Ian Gallagher _all fucking night_ , so slow, so soft.

Just them and their quiet voices in the dark.

Mickey's a little giddy when he talks to Ian that night—the night of the day of the moment _that_ happened—and he's embarrassed at himself for it, face goes red with it. And though it feels so fucking _good_ , he hates that his cheeks are sore from smiling, hates that his voice is so stupidly gentle.

And it may not be a big deal to Ian—probably isn't, Mickey thinks, as he quite literally does it all the fucking time, multiple times per week, sometimes, and well, it's just mutual masturbation, but.

_“I'm so fucking into you, Mickey Milkovich.”_

It _may not_ be a big deal.

But maybe it _is_. 

Mickey bites his lip, taps his fingers against the back of his phone as he listens to Ian tell him about that fucking stupid-ass TikTok he referenced earlier. He's listening, but he's not paying attention to the words themselves so much as he's paying attention to Ian's voice. He's paying attention to Ian's voice and he's smiling because he sounds so fucking _happy_.

“You're not even listening,” Ian says a moment later, and his voice is light and amused, not a hint of anger present.

Mickey schools his expression, reigning in his smile even though there's no one to see. “I'm listening.”

“Tell me what I just said, then.”

Mickey flounders awkwardly for a minute, fumbling over a few words, but Ian just snorts and calls him a dick.

That just makes Mickey smile even more.

“You sleepy?” Ian asks, and his voice takes on a tone so sweet, so soft, that it cramps up Mickey's belly.

“Nah.”

“You okay?”

Mickey breathes out a laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. And he wants to tell Ian, “Yes, I'm very fucking okay, really,” and he wants to tell him, “Just keep talking. I want to listen to you.” And he wants to tell him, “I like everything about you.”

But what he says is, “Told you I hate those fuckin' videos.”

Ian chuckles, and his voice is fond and smile-infused when he murmurs, “You do not.”

“You wanna argue about this?”

“I do, actually.”

They complain at each other for a few minutes, Mickey explaining why the videos are stupid and Ian not believing a fucking _word_ , as usual.

And then they're laughing when Ian hits Mickey with something that makes him hear the thudding pulse, the rhythmic rush of blood in his ears.

“You better prepare yourself for when we meet in person. I'm makin' a list of everything we're gonna watch together.”

And it's not even the _when we meet in person_ bit that gets to him like it would have weeks ago. It's the fact that Ian's planning to _do_ shit with him that has nothing to even do with sex.

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey says, and he's got a fucking _smile_ in his voice—he knows it. 

Ian _hmm_ s at him, this content little hum that means he's smiling, too. That means he's _thinking_. 

“I'm still mad at you, by the way,” he says after they've settled, after they've quieted down and spent a few minutes listening to each other breathe.

Mickey grumbles. “What the fuck now?”

“I didn't get to see you come.”

_Goddammit, Gallagher._

“Oh, fuck off. I didn't do that shit on purpose.”

Ian laughs then, and it's sleepy and sweet. And his voice is so, so soft and so, so gentle when he practically whispers, “You wanna make it up to me another time?”

Mickey's face flames up immediately, and he can feel the heat radiating from his skin when he rubs his hand over his face, over his eyes and cheeks and mouth.

“I dunno,” he says, but he can _hardly breathe_ , and he knows Ian can hear it—can hear that little hitch when he sputters out his “I” like a fucking blushing kid talking to his crush.

Ian doesn't reply right away, and the two of them are silent for a bit, nothing but sleepy shuffling, some sleepy snuffling. And when he asks the question, he seems a little worried, a little unsure, and Mickey bites his lip at it, frustrated.

“Are you still okay with what we did?” 

Mickey releases his lip and takes a deep breath in, slow breath out. “Yeah.”

There's some static then, a blown out sigh, and Ian says, “Okay. Good.”

And Mickey doesn't know why he says it other than the fact that Ian sounds _unsure of himself_ , and he sounds _nervous_ , and as much as Mickey struggles to talk about shit like this—as much as it makes his heart pound and his breath come a little too hard and his voice soften beyond reasonable comfort— _he just fucking likes him so goddamn much._

“I liked seeing you like that,” he says, doing his level best to keep his voice calm. “You're, uh.” He breathes and wipes a hand down his face. “You're hot.”

There's a breathy sound, like a gentle, relieved laugh, and then there's several seconds of silence. Mickey grins, knowing—just _knowing_ —that Ian's smiling.

“Don't even talk to me about 'hot,' Milkovich,” he finally says, and Mickey can hear the confidence returning to his voice. “I _never_ come first.”

“You'd've come if the fuckin' wind had blown on it a certain way.”

“You underestimate both my stamina and your influence, so you can just shut up.”

They laugh then, and it feels so damn good that Mickey has to close his eyes with it. 

After a minute of laughter that settles into amused puffs of breath, Ian asks, “So. Do you?”

Mickey _hm_ s. “What?”

“Wanna do it again sometime?”

It's obvious, really.

“Yeah.”

And this is the end of the conversation, Mickey can tell—can tell by the way it gets quiet for a minute and he can hear the squeak of bedsprings as Ian shifts in bed, settling down for something a little softer, a little more conducive to words whispered to each other before sleep. But he just has to add in one more thing before the tone shift.

“Just fuckin' warn me ahead of time, bitch.”

He grins in the darkness as Ian cackles like an exhausted idiot into his pillow.

\---  
\---

From that point forward, Ian's hard in all of the dick pics he sends Mickey.

And it's not like he sends one every day, but after nearly a week, Mickey has a small collection going—three pictures to jerk off to, three pictures to sneak a peek at sometimes when he's in the bathroom at work, a little pick-me-up to give him something to look forward to when he gets home.

Ian sends the fourth picture on Tuesday, and it makes Mickey laugh, actually, because it's fucking ridiculous looking.

“I know you're at work,” the caption reads, “but can we please just talk about this later?” And it's a picture of Ian in his green running shorts and white tank top, standing sideways in front of a mirror in what looks like a single-person gas station bathroom, finger poking the side of a semi. He has an exaggeratedly bewildered look on his face, eyes wide and lips pressed together in a straight line.

Mickey texts him as soon as he gets home.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Mickey (6:02 PM):** You gettin hard in public now?

**Ian (6:02 PM):** Apparently. Just popped a boner outta nowhere while I was buying a Gatorade.

**Mickey (6:03 PM):** You check anybody out while you were in there

**Ian (6:03 PM):** As alluring as the sixty-year-old woman behind the counter was, that'd be a no.

**Ian (6:04 PM):** But I've been horny as fuck in general lately, so I guess this is just what my life is now.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey's mouth goes dry. What the fuck does he even say to that?

“Me too” is what he probably _should_ say if he wants to be even remotely honest.

Taking a series of deep breaths, trying to steel himself, trying to still his nerves, he taps-taps his fingers against the sides of his phone case and then types a question he fucking _knows_ is risky—knows might open up a can of worms, but well.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Mickey (6:05 PM):** What's got you so fuckin horny

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey can't help but smile—even through his nerves—when Ian doesn't reply for the longest time, as if Mickey's taken him by surprise.

Finally, the dancing dots appear, and when the reply eventually comes through, Mickey feels its weight.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Ian (6:09 PM):** Things. 😏

\-------------------------------------------------------

What does _that_ mean?

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Mickey (6:10 PM):** Thanks for clearing that up

**Ian (6:10 PM):** You're welcome. 😎

\-------------------------------------------------------

And the cagier Ian gets, the harder Mickey has to bite his lip to hold in a smile. Because Jesus Christ, Ian said he wants to kiss him, and he said he's into him, and Mickey doesn't know how to do anything but _poke_.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Mickey (6:12 PM):** So which grandpa is it 

**Ian (6:12 PM):** The Panties Guy. We're in love.

**Mickey (6:12 PM):** Thought the Crying Guy was your favorite

**Ian (6:13 PM):** I said he was the nicest. You know me. I need a bit of a bad boy.

**Mickey (6:13 PM):** Oh really 

**Mickey (6:13 PM):** Thought the Insertion Guy would be more up your alley

**Ian (6:14 PM):** Mickey, Mickey, Mickey. How the hell am I supposed to fall in love with someone who's gonna try to put all my worldly possessions up their ass?

\-------------------------------------------------------

This is so fuckin' stupid. 

Mickey's having fun.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Mickey (6:14 PM):** The Come Guy?

**Ian (6:15 PM):** Nah. I mean, I love ejaculating as much as the next dude, but my dick gets tired sometimes.

**Ian (6:15 PM):** Besides, the Panties Guy buys me things. 

**Mickey (6:16 PM):** So the way to your heart is lace

**Ian (6:16 PM):** Something like that.

**Ian (6:16 PM):** Did I tell you he's got me wearing a thong now?

**Ian (6:17 PM):** And it's so small that my dick and balls literally don't fit so they just kind of bulge out the sides. It's the worst thing I've ever seen. I'm genuinely disgusted when I look in the mirror.

**Mickey (6:17 PM):** Send me a picture

**Ian (6:18 PM):** Hell no. I like you way too much to expose you to that. Sorry.

\-------------------------------------------------------

He's just going to _say_ shit like this now? So casually, and when it ain't even dark out?

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Mickey (6:19 PM):** What is it that gets him off if it looks so bad

**Ian (6:19 PM):** I don't really ask him questions about it, but I'm guessing it's just the women's underwear thing. Maybe feels “dirty” or whatever. I mean, I could easily wear a thong made for dudes, but it probably wouldn't get him off.

**Ian (6:20 PM):** But it's fine. He usually wants me to take them off pretty early into the session and jerk off with them instead, so it's easy.

**Ian (6:20 PM):** Hence why we're in love.

**Mickey (6:21 PM):** Would you fuck him

\-------------------------------------------------------

It takes longer for Ian to answer than Mickey was expecting. He's usually so candid, so open with information like this that he sometimes even fuckin' _volunteers_ it.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Ian (6:24 PM):** If he upgraded, sure. 

**Mickey (6:24 PM):** I dunno man, that shit's kinda fucked up to me

**Ian (6:24 PM):** Why?

**Mickey (6:25 PM):** I mean, you're not into him and you don't like wearin the underwear and shit so I don't get why you would like bangin him or whatever

\-------------------------------------------------------

He's not, he's _not_ fuckin' jealous. It's just that he doesn't get how Ian can be so blatantly turned off by somebody and _still_ be okay with puttin' his dick in them.

Mickey did it with girls as a teenager, sure, but that had fuck all to do with voluntarily signing up to do it and everything to do with putting his dad off his scent.

They don't talk about it a lot—and in fact, Mickey still doesn't know anything about his Platinum Package clients—but whenever something like this comes up, Ian always acts like it's no big fuckin' deal. Just another day at the office.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Ian (6:26 PM):** I wouldn't have desire for him, but like I've said. I love sex. And at the end of the day, it's pretty easy to just close your eyes and fuck. The guy comes, I come, it's fine. As long as he's respectful, I don't have a problem with it. It's a job.

\-------------------------------------------------------

And Mickey _gets_ that. He gets that.

He got hard when he was screwin’ Angie and Amy, and his biology responded in all the right ways. He came, and the orgasms felt good, but he felt fuckin' gross afterward when the girls wanted to _touch_ him.

If he hadn't wanted so badly for even the smallest sliver of information to get around about him having sex with them, he wouldn't have done it at all.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Mickey (6:27 PM):** Whatever

**Ian (6:28 PM):** A lot of what I do might not be what you imagine. Most of the guys I fuck don't really care that much about being gentle and thorough. We don't like, explore each other's bodies. And since they're paying for the sex acts a la carte, it usually isn't a long, emotional session. 

**Mickey (6:28 PM):** So if you wanna fuck do you like order it off a menu or what

**Ian (6:29 PM):** Basically? When you upgrade to Platinum, you're able to go on the app and schedule a session like an appointment. You choose from my available dates and times, and then you select what you want. A base-level meeting comes as part of the $199.99 weekly fee, but then each additional act adds on to that total.

**Ian (6:29 PM):** Give me a second. I'll send you something.

\-------------------------------------------------------

After a few minutes, three screenshots come through, all capturing one page. It's the kestrel screen from Ian's perspective.

At the top of the app page, where Mickey has only a few tabs, Ian has eight. There's all the ones Mickey has—email, chat, call, and video—in addition to tabs for client information, requests, and hours.

Ian has open a tab called “Work Settings,” and on that page is a list of sex acts with a “yes” or “no” beside each, indicating whether Ian has selected it to show up as part of his services. On the right side of each sex act is a drop-down box with a price that can be adjusted.

A note above the list indicates that each parenthetical notation--(Perform), (Receive), etc—is in reference to the client's role in the act.

**Availability**

| 

**Act**

| 

**Price**  
  
---|---|---  
  
Yes

| 

Date (Public Space)

| 

$100.00 per hour  
  
Yes

| 

Date (Private Space)

| 

$150.00 per hour  
  
Yes

| 

Clothed Cuddling (Active)

| 

$2.00 per minute  
  
Yes

| 

Clothed Cuddling (Passive)

| 

$2.00 per minute  
  
Yes

| 

Nude Cuddling (Active)

| 

$5.00 per minute  
  
Yes

| 

Nude Cuddling (Passive)

| 

$5.00 per minute  
  
Yes

| 

Erotic Massage (Perform)

| 

$100.00  
  
Yes

| 

Erotic Massage (Receive)

| 

$100.00  
  
Yes

| 

Manual Stimulation (Perform)

| 

$40.00  
  
Yes

| 

Manual Stimulation (Receive)

| 

$40.00  
  
Yes

| 

Fellatio (Perform)

| 

$150.00  
  
Yes

| 

Fellatio (Receive)

| 

$150.00  
  
Yes

| 

Fellatio (Mutual)

| 

$300.00  
  
Yes

| 

Analingus (Perform)

| 

$200.00  
  
No

| 

Analingus (Receive)

| 

XXXX  
  
Yes

| 

Digital Anal Penetration (Perform)

| 

$250.00  
  
Yes

| 

Digital Anal Penetration (Receive)

| 

$200.00  
  
Yes

| 

Anal Intercourse (Perform)

| 

$600.00  
  
Yes

| 

Anal Intercourse (Receive)

| 

$500.00  
  
Yes

| 

Role Play

| 

$50.00 per hour  
  
No

| 

Restraints and/or Gags (Perform)

| 

XXXX  
  
Yes

| 

Restraints and/or Gags (Receive)

| 

$100.00  
  
There’s an additional table further down, allowing Ian to make more decisions based on his preferences.

**Yes / No**

| 

**Option**

| 

**Rate and Discount**  
  
---|---|---  
  
Yes

| 

Allow Multiple Acts (Varied)

| 

0% discount  
  
Yes

| 

Allow Repeated Acts

| 

0% discount  
  
Yes

| 

Allow Clients to Submit Requests

| 

Negotiated Rate  
  
Yes 

| 

Enforce Non-Compliance Fee

| 

$300.00  
  
Mickey's chest squeezes when he looks at it.

And it's not as if he didn't _know_ that this shit was expensive. He _knew_ that. But seeing Ian's actual prices right in front of him makes his stomach sour, his limbs feel limp and lifeless because he really can't fucking afford to do everything he wants to do with him even _once_.

On a casual scan and based on his quick calculations, in addition to the $199.99 base fee, he'll be paying an additional $1,000.00 _at least_ if he wants to do just a few of the things he's been thinking about as he jerks off.

All he fuckin' wants to do is touch him _everywhere_. Kiss him. Suck him. Have him _inside of him_.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Ian (6:36 PM):** See, most guys don't want to pay for the extras, so they just put in for a blowjob or fuck. It's a very tidy process, really.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey takes a deep breath, and it's fucking _shaky_ , but he tries to act normal. Calm.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Mickey (6:38 PM):** What if they try for shit they didn't pay for

**Ian (6:38 PM):** I manually add it to their tab. If they don't want to pay for it, then I leave and charge them the non-compliance fee. 

**Mickey (6:39 PM):** Shit

**Ian (6:39 PM):** Yeah. It's a pretty well-oiled machine. 

**Mickey (6:40 PM):** Where do you do all this

**Ian (6:40 PM):** We agree on the space beforehand. The client usually rents a nice hotel room, but I've met them in the seediest of shithole motels, bars, and clubs. I've been to a couple penthouses before, but I usually try to avoid that if I can.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey doesn't respond for a while because honestly, what can he even say? He can't afford this shit on a $900 biweekly paycheck. And the more he listens to Ian talk about it, the more nauseous he feels.

The Platinum Package used to be something to aspire to. It was his “someday,” his “when I'm ready” goal. It was his assurance that he and Ian _would_ meet up one day and _would_ have sex and Mickey _would_ kiss him for _fucking hours_.

And _goddammit_ , it was an excuse, wasn’t it? It was a reason for them to fuck.

Looking at it like this, spelled out in black and white, broken into individual sex acts and price points and zero discounts for wanting to do it more than once, gives Mickey a sinking feeling in his chest. It feels a little bit like _loss_. 

Like fucking _heartbreak_.

He can't fucking do it. He can't afford it.

He has his savings—his little squirrel fund put away each month—but for what? To have one night of amazing, menu-style sex ending with a cancelled subscription because he's fucking broke?

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Ian (6:47 PM):** So you see what I mean? Sure, I'm having sex with these dudes, but it's really just performing a list of tasks for a paycheck. I always know what I'm getting into beforehand, and when it's over, I go home, take a shower, and go on with my day.

**Ian (6:48 PM):** And these guys are great tippers. Cash, too, so I just pocket that shit.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey rubs his hands over his face. He's sitting on the edge of his bed—has been for the past twenty minutes—and he just flops backward.

What does he _do_ with this information?

He can't fucking afford it, and if he can't fucking afford the final step in his plan, why's he even paying for the video shit?

But at this point, he can't imagine _not_ talking to Ian every day—can't imagine not liking him so much he wants to kiss the hell out of him. 

Ian's said that he wants to kiss him, and he's said he's into him, that he _likes_ him, that he wants to _watch_ shit with him, and when they jerked off together, Ian came _first_. 

They _like each other_. They're _into_ each other.

But is Ian going under the impression that Mickey's gonna pay to have sex with him one day? Is this “when we meet in person” Ian talks about the result of Mickey upgrading to the Platinum Package?

Is he planning to have Mickey pick from the menu one day and then—like they've been doing for months with the extra phone calls, the extra after-hours messages—give up some extra time “after work” to just hang out with him?

Mickey puts a hand on his belly—up under his shirt—and just holds it there. Feels himself breathing. Tries to settle.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Ian (6:54 PM):** Did you leave? 🤨

**Mickey (6:55 PM):** No

**Ian (6:55 PM):** What's up? You okay?

\-------------------------------------------------------

“No” is what he should say.

“I don't know if you like me for real” is what he wants to say.

“I'm worried that I'm a little bit in love with you” is what he thinks but can _never_ say.

What he says is

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Mickey (6:57 PM):** Fine, just making dinner

\-------------------------------------------------------

He puts his phone down for a minute and sits up, pulling off his uniform top and tossing it somewhere in the direction of the clothes hamper.

He _should_ think about dinner. Should get the fuck over this shit in his head before he loses his mind.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Ian (6:58 PM):** Want some company?

\-------------------------------------------------------

Desperately.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Mickey (6:59 PM):** Nah not tonight. I've got some shit to do later so I'm not cookin anything fancy

**Ian (6:59 PM):** Cool.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey stands, unbuckles his belt, and takes off his ugly ass khakis. 

Once he's down to his wife-beater and blue and white pinstriped boxers, he grabs his phone and heads into the kitchen.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Ian (7:01 PM):** Friday night date, maybe?

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey rolls his lips into his mouth. Bites down.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Mickey (7:02 PM):** Ok

**Ian (7:02 PM):** 😘

\-------------------------------------------------------

Ian's sent that emoji twice more since the first time after their “date” or whatever-the-fuck a few weeks ago.

The first one was after he was being a complete dickhead, and it was tongue-in-cheek and meant to piss Mickey off. The second one had been sent at two in the morning, following a late-night texting session in which they'd spent twenty minutes making fun of each other and Mickey had sent more middle finger emojis than he had in his life.

This one gives Mickey pause.

He considers sending a question mark—considers typing “What's that for”—but he bites his lip instead. Puts his phone face-down on the counter. Heads to the freezer to find something to nuke.

\---  
\---

They don't talk on the phone that night, but Ian texts him a fucking paragraph the next morning.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Ian (6:47 AM):** Hey Mickey. I was gonna call you last night, but you said you were busy, so I didn't want to bother you. But I just wanted to say that I hope we're cool? Things got a little weird at the end of our conversation yesterday. Or maybe I'm just being dumb. Anyway. I hope you have a good day. I can't wait to see you Friday. 😊

\-------------------------------------------------------

Dumbass motherfucker.

Mickey stretches out in bed, knowing he has to get up in a few minutes, and reads the text again. 

There are a lot of things he hates about this situation, but Ian Gallagher is decidedly not one of them.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Mickey (6:52 AM):** Everything's cool. You're being dumb.

**Mickey (6:52 AM):** But I guess I like you anyway

\-------------------------------------------------------  
\---

Work is annoying. He doesn't have to clock in until nine, but he gets there at eight-thirty. He'd left his apartment too early, trying to do _something_ other than wait around in the quiet and think about Ian—think about _talking to him_ about serious shit, like _do you genuinely like me?_ shit. _Are you going to have me pay for sex with you?_ shit. _I'm really fuckin' into you, too_ shit.

He pushes into the security office, clocks in on the computer, and then, after putting on his belt complete with a wand, pager, handcuffs, and ID badge, grabs coffee.

It's a music sort of morning—anything to keep the quiet away—so he puts in his earbuds, turns on “Guerrilla Radio” by Rage Against the Machine, and sets off to do a loop around the mall.

Of fuckin' course the mall walkers are there. And they're in his fuckin' way, really, because he's trying to do his loop, and he's tryin' to _not_ think about shit, and here they are, a five-person line of geriatrics in sweatpants, slowing him down, blocking his path.

“ _'ey_!” he calls, waving around his hand agitatedly. “You ain't the fuckin' Rockettes! One behind the other!”

They split up, astounded and offended in equal measure. Mickey slides through the gap and stomps off, leaving them in his dust.

\---

He has a text from Ian when he gets back to the security office at a little after nine. 

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Ian (9:02 AM):** Good to know. 😎

**Mickey (9:09 AM):** 🖕

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey thinks that's the end, but as he's putting his phone back in his pocket, he feels it vibrate.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Ian (9:10 AM):** I am glad to know it.

**Mickey (9:10 AM):** That you're bein dumb

**Ian (9:10 AM):** 🖕

**Ian (9:11 AM):** That you like me.

**Ian (9:11 AM):** 'cause I like you.

**Ian (9:11 AM):** Makes things pretty simple when we're on the same page.

\-------------------------------------------------------

_Does it_ , though?

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Mickey (9:12 AM):** Whatever

\-------------------------------------------------------

But even so, Mickey's stomach twists up, and he feels his cheeks warm.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Ian (9:12 AM):** Have a good day. Give 'em hell. 🤘

**Mickey (9:13 AM):** Yep

\-------------------------------------------------------

He thinks for a second, tap-tap-tapping his fingers against the sides of his phone. And after a quick decision turned quick action, types.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Mickey (9:14 AM):** Go save the world, Superman

\-------------------------------------------------------

He hopes Ian has a good day, too.

\---

“You textin' your lady there, Milkovich?” 

Mickey jumps, having been lost in the text for a second. Probably smiling like a fuckin' idiot.

It's Sean, and he's filling his Yeti tumbler with coffee and looking at Mickey with a knowing look.

“Somethin' like that,” Mickey says awkwardly, quickly putting his phone away.

And though he's worried, and though he has that constant, anxious feeling in his belly whenever he thinks about his future with Ian, he has a pretty fuckin’ good day.

\---  
\---

Thursday afternoon, he's smoking a cigarette out on the park bench behind the corner store, having stopped for a rest on his jog. He's red-faced and sweaty as hell, and the front of his burgundy T-shirt is wet and sticking to his chest. And smoking's probably not the best thing he can do for his lungs between legs of his jog, but well. It relaxes him.

He gets his phone out, idly scrolling through Instagram. Ian's posted new pictures of his nephew. He's a cute little fucker, all chubby and sportin' one and a half bottom teeth.

And it's as he's zooming in on a picture of Ian lying on his back on the floor, the baby seemingly hitting him in the face with a rubber block, that an email comes in.

And fuck.

_He won the goddamned gift card._

Before he can even think about the implications, he screenshots the email and sends it to Ian.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Ian (6:41 PM):** No shit! That's fucking great!

\-------------------------------------------------------

And that would've been all well and good if he didn't send a follow-up message.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Ian (6:41 PM):** Whatcha buyin', then? 😉

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey puts his phone in his pocket, crushes out his cigarette, and jogs back home while listening to Motörhead as loud as he possibly can. 

\---

_He buys the goddamned dildo._

It's nine inches long, seven inches insertable, made of medical grade silicone with a soft exterior, a firm core, and a “realistic skin-like feel.” It costs $79.99, and he adds a bottle of some good quality lube to his shopping cart before making the purchase.

And he very, very pointedly does not reply to Ian's text. What the hell's he supposed to say to that? 

“Y'know. A dildo that looks like your dick. A dildo that I'm gonna fuck myself with and pretend I'm takin' your cock. Nothin' special.”

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Ian (8:07 PM):** Must've been that great review you left me. 😉

\-------------------------------------------------------

And he's _definitely_ trying to get Mickey to spill without outright asking again. 

Whatever. He ain't takin' the bait, bitch.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Mickey (8:08 PM):** Must've been

\-------------------------------------------------------

He doesn't know _why_ exactly he's so avoidant of talking to Ian about his sexual interests.

They literally jerked off together the week before. 

And they talk about sex as it pertains to Ian. By now, Mickey knows a whole hell of a lot about what Ian gets up to with his clients and even by himself.

He knows pretty much everything each of his clients has him do on a regular basis—knows his feelings about certain solo sex acts, knows he gets embarrassed sometimes when his clients want him to do ass stuff, and knows he feels awkward and vulnerable for a minute right after he comes.

He knows he prefers to top, that he likes to take his time, and knows, thanks to a random tangent in the middle of one of their late night conversations, that he loves getting his nipples licked. ( _That_ bit of information had sent Mickey for the loop of his life.)

But Ian knows very little about Mickey.

And it isn't fair, really. He knows this. It's just that Ian's had a fuck-ton of sex, and he's done it in ways that’ve allowed him to figure out what he likes. 

Mickey's still trying to figure it out.

And well, the dildo will arrive in five to seven business days.

Mickey gets his fingers up there sometimes while he's jerking off, but his fingers are short and the angle's always too weird to apply the right kind of pressure to his prostate. But he _likes_ it. He _wants_ it.

He finds that he's genuinely looking forward to fucking himself.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Ian (8:19 PM):** You're going to leave me hanging, aren't you? 😑

**Mickey (8:19 PM):** 🖕

**Ian (8:20 PM):** Well, I'm just gonna assume you're buying a 12 inch monster dildo until you tell me otherwise.

**Mickey (8:20 PM):** Fine

**Ian (8:21 PM):** Goddammit, Mickey.

\-------------------------------------------------------

So yeah, Mickey should probably be willing to share a little more about himself, but Ian is _just_ so fuckin' fun to mess with.

And not only that, but he's always so fuckin' _kind_ about it. He pushes just enough, but he always knows when to stop—when to pull back, when to hold back.

Maybe he's learned it from his job—maybe at the app or maybe even working as an EMT—or maybe Ian Gallagher’s just a caring person. Maybe he's just somehow exceptionally tuned in to Mickey—as if he's been given a goddamn handbook. 

Whatever it is, there's something about him that's just _right_. That just _works_.

It's one of the reasons Mickey thinks about asking him the questions that night, as they murmur to each other in the dark.

They're in their softer stage now, the one o'clock to one-fifteen stage before they say goodnight. It's when they're both settled, both under the covers, voices low.

“We still on for our date, Milkovich?” Ian asks, and Mickey can hear the sleepy smile shining through.

Mickey _hm_ s. “What're you gonna pretend you can't cook tomorrow?”

“Think I'm just gonna order some take-out.”

“Good idea.”

Ian chuckles, then yawns. Mickey smiles at it, absently rubbing his thumb back and forth along the edge of his phone case.

“Can't wait to see you,” Ian whispers, and something about it, something about the tone of his voice and how fuckin' _gentle_ he's being makes Mickey's belly warm. 

Makes him brave.

“Yeah. Me too.”

And now that he's said it, now that he's been _soft_ and _gentle_ , Ian apparently takes it as an indication that it's fine to just progress with the whispering. With the words.

Mickey's heart starts to pick up, breath starts to turn from the slowing inhale-exhale of a body settling down to sleep to the harsher, quickening pace of a pant.

“I miss you a lot,” Ian murmurs like a confession. So, so soft.

“We talk every fuckin' day.”

“I know.”

“Then how can you miss me?”

There's a staticky exhale, followed by a pause while Ian gathers his thoughts. “Mostly it's when I'm by myself. Like, eating dinner or. I dunno. When I get home and it's really quiet in my apartment.”

Mickey hums at that. He gets it. He _feels_ it.

Ian continues. “And I hope I don't like, annoy you or anything by texting you so much, but.” Another puff of breath. “I just want to be around you all the fuckin' time.”

He actually prepares to say it then—feels the nervous shakes start, feels his heart pound so hard he's nearly lightheaded. He almost says _I am so, so into you that I can't stand it._ And he almost says _Please, please say it's okay that I can't pay._

Mickey doesn't say either of those things, but he's okay for the moment with what he does say, which is

“I miss you, too.”

He hears it then, this shaky noise in Ian's throat like Mickey's stopped his breath. Stopped his heart.

He puts a hand over his face and just closes his eyes, listening. And y'know, there's something to be said for making Ian happy. 

For giving him butterflies.

They breathe at each other for the longest time. 

And there's something about this moment that makes Mickey want to just have him here with him. Soft and warm and bundled up with him under the covers. He wants to run a hand through his hair. He wants to kiss his lips and his nose. His freckly eyelids.

There's a grumble from Ian, and then he yawns. “I probably need to go to sleep. Gotta get up in a few hours, so.”

Mickey sniffs. “Yeah. Go to bed.”

“Night, Mickey.”

“Night.” 

And then he says it because he wants to, really. He wants Ian to feel good, and he wants him to be happy. He wants to stop his breath.

“Sweet dreams, Sleepyface.”

Ian chuckles at that, and it's so, so soft. So, so gentle.

\---

Ian sends him a text not five minutes after they've hung up, and it makes Mickey squeeze his pillow in order to do _something_ with that warm, unique sort of energy creeping into his body.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Ian (1:21 AM):** You're cute. 😍

\-------------------------------------------------------

Normally, he'd bristle at being called “cute.” He's always been small, and he's spent his life trying to be bigger than that, trying to be stronger and rougher than his stature implied.

But there are worse things than Ian Gallagher calling you cute.

Most things are worse than that, in fact.

\---  
\---

They'd agreed to FaceTime at seven Friday night.

Mickey, if he's honest, goes into the evening sort of wondering—sort of hoping, even—whether their time together might end with something similar to what happened with them the previous Sunday.

He doesn't think about it _too hard_ , and he doesn't do anything about it like shower after work or dress in any way other than in his traditional at-home-but-in-more-than-just-boxers wear. But he does _wonder_.

The problem with wondering about good things, for Mickey, is that it often leads to a barrage of negative thoughts.

The problem with hoping he's going to get to see Ian's face when he comes is that it gets him thinking about the fuckin' subscription again.

Gets him thinking about the questions he needs to ask.

Because it's gonna _have_ to go down that way, right? 

He figures he has two options: one, that he asks his questions, and whatever-the-fuck the answers are, they are, and he can move on with or without Ian; or two, that he blows an entire paycheck on the fevered night of his life and then cancels the subscription, taking his chances on whether Ian will ever want to see him again after that.

And the thing is, option two is really fucking appealing. It's appealing to the scared kid inside of him. It's appealing to every inch of recklessness in his body. And if he _hadn't_ been fixing up his apartment and jogging four miles a day and trying to cook for himself and maybe, just maybe, feeling better about his life right now than he ever has, he'd go with it.

But he _can't_ fucking do that. 

More than anything, he doesn't _want_ to fucking do that.

Because he can be reckless. And he can be stupid. And he can be violent and angry and spiteful.

But Ian wants to fuckin' kiss him, and he _misses him_ , and Mickey's ready to be a little gentle for once in his goddamn life.

\---  
\---

When the FaceTime call connects, Mickey's expecting Ian to be in the kitchen like last time. 

Instead, he's lying back on his bed, head on that drool-stained pillow. He's wearing a sage green T-shirt with short sleeves that are rolled a bit at the edges like they've been cut, and he's got slightly chapped lips and a little patch of shaving rash bumps at his jawline.

“Hey!” he greets, giving a wave, lips turning up in a smile.

“Hey. What's up?”

Ian takes a deep breath and shrugs. “Waiting on my Chinese.”

“So you _did_ order delivery.”

“Mmhm. What you eatin'?”

Mickey's standing in _his_ kitchen at least, and he's got his phone propped up on the paper towel holder. “Some kinda beef and broccoli stir fry thing.”

It's in a Tupperware container in the fridge with a Post-It note stuck to the top. “Love you, Mickey,” it says, followed by a smiley face and “Margaret Callaghan.”

Ian doesn't need to know that, though.

He _hmm_ s as if impressed, and then purses his lips as he looks up and down, all across Mickey's face as if trying to memorize every detail.

“The fuck you lookin' at?” Mickey fights a smile.

“Things.”

“ _Things_ , huh?”

“Yep.” 

And he does something with his face that makes Mickey bite the inside of his cheeks to keep from smiling like a fuckin' idiot. There's a lip purse, but then one side of his cheeks pulls back, like he's fighting a grin, eyes shining and staring straight into Mickey's.

Mickey's never wanted to kiss him so badly.

And that's what they'd be doing right now if they were in person, right? He _knows_ it. He knows _Ian_ knows it. It's in the air, this tension, this electricity that's making the back of his knees sweat.

“Anyway,” Ian cuts in, tone of voice making it obvious that he knows every fucking thing Mickey's thinking, every fucking thing that's going on right now. He grins, sticks out his tongue a bit, and finishes with, “Tell me about your day.” Purses those lips again, the smug fucker.

They talk about work for a bit. There's a new EMT on staff, and Ian's so excited to train her, and Mickey smiles gently as he watches how animated he is when he talks about it, when he hears how fuckin' knowledgeable he is about that shit, and when he knows how hard he works to do and be the best he can be. 

He tells Ian about how he got to chase a dumb bitch through the mall and tackle her ass, forcing her to cough up an ugly-as-all-fuck shirt she'd tried to steal. 

Ian laughs at the story, and he looks at him with those shining eyes, and Mickey knows what Ian means now when he'd told him that he made him feel good.

\---

When Ian's Chinese comes, Mickey takes the three minutes it takes Ian to collect, unbag, and plate the food from the Uber Eats driver to spoon out and microwave his own dinner.

“No way did you make that,” Ian comments suddenly, and Mickey looks up from where he's standing at the counter, stirring the food on his plate. “It looks too healthy.”

Mickey flips him off and pops a piece of broccoli into his mouth.

“Your landlady must really love you.” And he says it in such a sweet way that Mickey sort of feels bad when he flips him off again.

“She's fuckin' batshit, man.”

“She cooks you meals and desserts and gives you discounted rent. I think she loves you.”

“Whatever.” Mickey grumbles and swipes a new piece of broccoli through the teriyaki sauce on his plate.

\---

Ian's eating sesame chicken with a side of Szechuan noodles, and he talks with his mouth full a little bit when he tells Mickey about Freddie, his nephew, and how he's learning to walk.

Mickey tells him about Mandy then, and how she's living with some guy in McKinley Park, and it's so strange talking about these people in their lives that they both _know_. Mickey's had Lip write English papers for him, has almost fought with him a time or two, and Mandy's fuckin' _kissed_ Ian, apparently. And it just feels so weird and so real that Mickey's a little breathless as he finishes up his dinner.

Ian genuinely eats more than anyone Mickey's ever known, so it takes him much longer to finish his meal. Mickey grabs a beer from the fridge and settles on the couch as he watches Ian make his way through two entire take-out containers.

When he's finished, he disappears for a minute, and Mickey can hear him throwing away the containers and putting his plate in the sink.

“Check it out,” he says when he returns, holding up two fortune cookies. “Ya wanna?”

Mickey shrugs and takes a swig off his beer. 

“Mm.” Ian makes a show of switching the cookies back and forth in his hands, mixing them up, before setting them down on the table in front of him. “Pick.”

Mickey chooses the left one, and with a smirk, Ian removes the wrapper and cracks it open. He quirks an eyebrow as he reads. “To be found, stop hiding.”

Mickey makes a _pfff_ noise with his lips. “Fuck's that s'posed to mean?”

Ian shrugs and crams half the cookie into his mouth while he unwraps the other and cracks it open.

And he looks like he's going to choke for a second, his eyes widening and his chewing pausing as soon as his eyes meet the paper.

“What'd ya get?” Mickey asks, scratching at the label of his beer bottle with his thumbnail.

Clearly trying to play it off, Ian schools his expression, face going from shock to disinterest in a split second. He resumes chewing and shrugs.

“Oh, fuck you. Are you _serious_?”

“I'll show ya later,” Ian says cryptically, muffly, mouth still full, folding up the little slip of paper and putting it in his pocket.

Weird motherfucker. 

Mickey _hmph_ s, raises his eyebrow at him, and takes a long pull off his beer. “Whatever, bitch.”

Ian smiles at him—that fuckin' starry-eyed shit again—and maybe it's the lighting, maybe it's wishful thinking, but Mickey thinks his cheeks seem a little flushed.

\---

Eventually, Ian ends up on his own couch, and the two of them find themselves drinking—one with a bottle of beer and one with a bottle of Orange Crush—and giving each other occasional looks. 

They both have their phones sitting in their laps, allowing one another just a bit of a from-below image of their faces as they do their own thing.

Mickey's got the TV on in the background, and an episode of _The Bachelor_ is playing low. Every once in a while, Ian takes out his work phone and fucks around on it, sometimes holding up the screen and showing Mickey a meme or something interesting on his Instagram feed.

They're just _hanging out_ , really, and it's nice. It's quiet, and it's comfortable, and Mickey's belly twists up a little bit when he thinks about how they're doing absolutely nothing right now other than being together.

He gets up to grab another beer after about twenty minutes, and when he returns, Ian's got the phone up again so his face is in view.

“Hey,” he says, so sweet.

Mickey raises his eyebrows in response. Quirks a bit of a smile.

“Can I ask you something?” He sounds hopeful and maybe a touch nervous. “It's personal. And something you've got pissed at me for asking before.”

“The fuck?”

Ian gazes at him seriously, prompting a response. 

Mickey shrugs. “What?”

After taking a drink of his pop—pop that's turning the center of his lips more and more orange every time he sips—Ian asks, “What kinda stuff are you into? Like. Sexually.” He presses his lips into a straight line. “Sorry. I know I've asked you a thousand times, but. I just. Think about you.”

Mickey's heart gives a little kick.

And yeah, Ian's asked about it at least four times now, and every time he's asked before, Mickey's gotten pissed. Or dismissive. Or ignored it altogether.

But well.

Maybe he should stop hiding.

He takes a deep breath, bites on the insides of his cheeks, and shrugs a little. “I think it's pretty firmly established that I don't know.”

“No, but I mean.” Ian squints at his own image in the corner of the FaceTime screen and then rubs at the orange on his mouth. “Do you watch porn?”

Mickey's cheeks flame up. “Yeah.”

“So. What do you like?”

He's a little shaky, a little stumbly with his words, but he somehow gets out, “Just like. Regular shit, man.”

Ian nods. He looks thoughtful. “Two regular dudes fuckin' in bed?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

They're quiet for a minute, and Ian drinks more of his Crush. He still looks thoughtful.

“What?” Mickey asks, wanting him to just get it out already.

Ian smiles and swipes his hand over his mouth. “Any particular _positions_ , or. I dunno. Things you would _want_.”

“The fuck 're you gettin' at?” Mickey's heart is pounding so hard he can feel his pulse making his neck twitch.

“Top or bottom?”

He _laughs_ then, because really, it would've been a hell of a lot less awkward if he'd just asked that from the start. 

And _fuck_ , now it makes sense. Ian says he just _thinks about him_. Does he imagine them fucking? Does he wonder about the various configurations of their bodies?

Mickey presses his lips together and takes a deep breath through his nose—slowly in, slowly out.

“Bottom.”

And if he could take a picture of Ian's face when he answers, he would print it out and wallpaper his bedroom with it.

There's this _immediate_ softening to his features, like he's been worried, clenching his jaw, only to be told the absolute best news he could possibly hear. In this moment, he's _transparent_.

Mickey smiles, and it's wide and happy, and he knows he probably looks goofy with it, goddammit.

And he's honestly expecting Ian to say something like, “That's a relief,” or in some way comment on the fact that they're at least compatible in their preferences. But he doesn't.

Instead, he asks something that makes Mickey put up both middle fingers _immediately_.

“You tooootally got that twelve-inch monster dildo, didn't you?”

“Fuck you!” But he's laughing through it—enough, even, that he ends up breathing it out into his beer bottle, making it play a note.

Ian laughs back, and, being the stupid motherfucker he is, presses the lip of his Crush bottle against his chin and blows down into it, himself, replicating Mickey's accidental note.

Mickey flips him off again, and Ian smirks back.

“Did you really, though? Get the monster dildo?”

“Fuck you. _No_.”

“But you tooootally got a dildo.”

“Shut up.”

Ian snaps his fingers, suddenly excited like a stupid kid. “That's confirmation, bitch.”

“It ain't confirmation of shit.”

“Mm.” Ian takes a huge mouthful of his drink—enough to make his cheeks bulge—and then swallows. Burps a little, mouth closed. “It's fine. I'm fuckin' _into_ it.” He smiles. “You don't have to be embarrassed about that shit, Mickey.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Whatever, fuckhead.”

Ian flips him off.

And then they just stare at each other for the longest time, the mood softening with it. Mickey watches Ian's eyes move up and down, slowly, slowly, as he glances all over Mickey's face, his mouth slowly pulling into a sweet smile.

“Would you ever wanna meet up?” Ian asks, and it's so sudden that Mickey drops his mouth open to breathe, not even having enough time to consider schooling his expression.

His arms have _immediately_ turned to Jell-o, heart has _immediately_ launched itself into his throat.

“For.” And that's all he gets out, really, forgetting where he was going once he started.

Thankfully, Ian picks up on it _immediately_.

“Things,” he says, still with that sweet smile, and fuck, if that doesn't do something to Mickey's belly. 

Ian's stumped him, really. And well, obviously the answer is _yes_ , he wants to meet up— _fuck yes_ , he wants to meet up—but _one day_ , once he's figured out the dildo situation, once he's thought a bit more, learned a bit more. 

“Sorry,” Ian says when Mickey doesn't respond. “I know that was outta the blue. I'm just.” He sighs. Acts like he's going to say something else, but doesn't.

Mickey presses his lips together—hard—and just stares at him. And he looks so fuckin' nervous all of a sudden, like he's walked into the wrong room and is slowly backing his way out, wide-eyed and embarrassed.

“I can't afford it,” he says, and it's the truest thing he knows right now. He wants it, but he can't afford it. He could never afford to do everything he wants to do with Ian Gallagher. 

He wants to do it all.

Ian's brows pull together in what looks like confusion.

Then he gets it. Mickey can pin it down to the millisecond—the tiniest twitch in his brows, the pull-back of one corner of his mouth, the slowly appearing frown.

“Oh,” he says, and it's low, soft, and he looks fuckin' _hurt_.

Mickey runs a hand over his face. Looks at him.

Ian's got the _strangest_ , saddest look on his face—the downturned mouth, the distant eyes—and he keeps trying to school it into something stronger, tougher, but it won't stick.

“Sorry,” he says. He picks up the cap to his drink and starts screwing it back on. He smiles for a second, not looking at Mickey, and continues with, “I _really_ thought. Uh.” Smiles again. It's sad.

“You alright?” Mickey asks, suddenly concerned. There's something twisting in his gut—something cold.

“Yeah! I'm great.” And it's overly happy and so fuckin' fake. “I'm just realizing that I'm like, _way_ out of line here. _Fuck_.” He's breathing out his mouth, now, like Mickey does when he's been hit with something to fuel his anxiety. And he's staring off to the side, seemingly refusing to look at Mickey, those eyes fuckin' clouded over like he's seeing nothing but the thoughts in his head.

When he finally does look at Mickey, it's in quick glances. His face is red, now, splotchy, and he looks _embarrassed_.

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “The fuck's goin' on with you?”

“ _Fuck_ , Mickey. I am really fuckin' sorry.”

“ _What_?”

_Now_ he's just fuckin' confused. Ian's having a goddamn breakdown here, and Mickey's just left gasping at him, mouth opening and closing as he tries to figure out where the hell to even begin.

Ian's got a hand in his hair now, scrubbing it through, and he looks wild for a moment before this dread-inducing expression of resignation enters his features, creeping across his face from his mouth up.

He looks at Mickey. “I sort of.” He blows out a breath. “Sorry. I was just thinkin' we were like.” He motions with his hand—gesturing at Mickey, then himself. 

Mickey's heart pounds. “Like what?”

Ian hums. “Into each other?”

“Into each other.”

“Yeah, like.” Ian cringes. “Romantically?” He's breathing hard now, and he runs his hand over his face as if working himself up to something. “And like, I knew the situation was fucked up. You're basically paying me money every week, and I've been like, tryin' to work up the nerve to talk to you about it. I even like, set up a fuckin' Venmo account because I was gonna try to send you your fuckin' money back, and.” He pauses, scrubs his hand through his hair. “I didn't know whether you actually liked me or if I was fuckin' _projecting_ my shit onto you, as usual. So I didn't say anything, and now I feel like a fuckin' idiot because now I'm like a fuckin' _hooker_ who's into his client, and. Jesus _Christ_.”

“ _Ian_.” Mickey's looking at him. Looking at this stupid-ass motherfucker who's having a fuckin' _breakdown_ for no fuckin' reason. 

And something _breaks_ inside him—breaks like a wire drawn taught, this tension that's been held in his belly for weeks and weeks plucked like a guitar string until it _snaps_.

“Ian, shut the fuck up.” He's gentle, and he’s soft, and he's smiling a little because he can't fuckin' help it.

Ian looks at him then, and he looks so _sad_ , still, but his eyes are clearing like there's a break in the fog.

“You're a dumbass,” Mickey says, and he's full-on grinning now. “Of course I fuckin' like you.” He laughs, and it's nervous and shaky—all breath.

Ian's eyes are tipping upward, the corner of his mouth quirking just a bit, like he's waiting, waiting, waiting for Mickey to say something that's gonna confirm a growing inkling in his brain.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Mickey continues, running a hand over his face. “I just. I didn't know. Either.” He blows out a breath. “That's what I meant by not being able to afford it. I didn't know if you meant ‘meet up’ like, for Platinum Package shit, or.”

“ _Jesus Christ_ , Mickey.” Ian laughs now, and it's a laugh of _relief_. He looks like someone's confirmed and debunked his worst nightmare all in the span of five minutes. His _forehead_ 's red with a flush, and Mickey can see the continuously multiplying splotches on his neck and chest. “I would _never_ make you pay that shit. Are you kidding me?”

“Well, I didn't fuckin' know.”

Ian nods. “Yeah.” He scrubs a hand over his face, taking a minute to rub at his eyes like he'd been on the verge of tears at some point, and breathes out another laugh. “We're idiots.”

“Apparently.”

“ _Fuck_ , Mickey.” 

And they take a minute to just _look_ at each other. Mickey's usually a little shyer about this, letting his eyes wander but holding back his smile, but he doesn't give a fuck about that right now.

He looks at Ian, and he smiles, and it feels like a beginning.

It's _intense_. 

He sighs after a bit—happy as fuck—and says, grabbing the empty beer bottle from where it's been held between his thighs. “I'm gonna get another beer.”

Ian nods and starts to climb up, himself. “I'm gonna go nervous pee.”

Mickey _snorts_ , and the two of them just break into the most raucous laughter, like a pair of idiot kids.

And the whole time Mickey's getting his beer, holding the chilled bottle to his forehead to cool himself down, he feels like he's been lit up from the inside, like there's a goddamned sun in his belly, and he really doesn't know what to do with himself.

\---

When Ian gets back from the bathroom, the edges of his hair wet like he'd splashed water on his face, they lounge around on their respective couches and talk aimlessly. 

Mickey stretches out fully on his back, his legs hanging off over the armrest, and Jovi comes and curls up against his neck.

“I love him so much, Mickey,” Ian says, and something about the way he says it makes Mickey's belly twist.

They talk for nearly an hour about absolutely nothing of importance, and for one of the first times in his memory, he feels _charged_ and happy, like his hormones are all working together in positive ways, like good things are happening and will continue to happen. 

He feels fuckin' _hopeful_.

\---

Before they end the call, Ian looks at him, his face flaming up, and smiles. “I'm gonna text you some stuff so we can like, figure this shit out, okay?”

Mickey nods, skin equally as toasty, and agrees.

And he _floats_ to the bathroom to piss and splash water over his face, then to his bedroom, where he takes off his jeans and stretches out on his back on the bed.

And part of him can't believe this. It fucking _worked out_. Ian _likes him_. 

Romantically.

Holy fuck.

He's thinking and thinking, imagining the absolute _gayest_ shit that makes him feel like a stupid fucking teenager, when Ian texts him.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Ian (9:03 PM):** So just to confirm. You and I are into each other. 

**Ian (9:03 PM):** With romantic intent.

**Ian (9:03 PM):** ?

\-------------------------------------------------------

_Goddammit_ , Gallagher.

Mickey laughs. He's giddy, really, and he knows that if he had a fuckin' mirror, he'd see that his face is redder than it's ever been, that his eyes are crinkled up at the corners from the fucking _smile_ that's making his cheeks hurt.

He tap-tap-taps his phone and touches his thumbs to the keyboard.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Mickey (9:04 PM):** Yeah

\-------------------------------------------------------

He turns off the phone screen and pulls the neck of his shirt up over his face for a minute.

Romantic intent.

He squeezes his eyes shut and _breathes_.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Ian (9:06 PM):** Okay. I'm gonna send you a link to cancel because I don't want you paying for this shit anymore.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey smiles when he reads it. And he wants to have a little fun, now, because why not?

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Mickey (9:07 PM):** Who's your new favorite client gonna be then

**Ian (9:07 PM):** I think we've firmly established that I'm deeply in love with the Panties Guy, so I don't even know why that's a question.

**Mickey (9:07 PM):** Let me know how that works out for you when he's got you in a bra in a few weeks

**Ian (9:08 PM):** Can't wait.

**Ian (9:08 PM):** 😉

\-------------------------------------------------------

Ian sends through the link.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Ian (9:07 PM):** Your cancellation will be processed through that link.

**Ian (9:08 PM):** And if you're cool with it, please don't put why you're cancelling in the text box. I will literally get fired. 

**Mickey (9:08 PM):** Fired for what 

**Ian (9:09 PM):** Do you want a list?

\-------------------------------------------------------

Smirking, Mickey clicks the link.

It's simple enough—just a few clicks, followed by a survey at the end. He rates Ian all fives, selects “This service costs too much money” for his reason for cancellation. Skips the text box altogether.

And just like that, it's done.

Now, it's just them. Just Ian and Mickey.

He reaches a hand up under his shirt and holds it against his stomach again. Feels it rise and fall as he breathes. Feels it settle this time, finally, as he calms.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Mickey (9:16 PM):** Done

**Ian (9:17 PM):** 😊

\-------------------------------------------------------

They're quiet for a few minutes. Mickey's thinking. He's thinking about how there's a hot-ass ginger motherfucker who's into him. Romantically.

Who knows that Mickey's into _him_. Romantically.

And he's thinking about when he was in fuckin' elementary school, when he had the stupid crush on Dylan Kelly—the type of crush only a nine-year-old can have—and how he would steal his pencils and keep them in a box in his room and how his son of a bitch of a father made him feel disgusting. Like he was fuckin' wrong and perverted for thinking a boy was a little bit beautiful.

And he's thinking about how Ian Gallagher is the most beautiful boy he's ever known, and he doesn't feel even the tiniest bit dirty.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Ian (9:26 PM):** I put all my kestrel money in my saving's account, by the way, so I still have everything I've made off you.

**Ian (9:26 PM):** Obviously, I only take home about 30% of what you pay each week, so most of your money is unfortunately gone forever.

**Ian (9:27 PM):** But I wanted you to know that I have the rest of it. Just let me know if you want me to Venmo it to you. Or maybe we can think of something to do with it later?

**Mickey (9:28 PM):** Whatever. I don't care about that shit

**Ian (9:28 PM):** 🤨 Well, I'll hold on to it until you let me know.

\-------------------------------------------------------

And he really _doesn't_ care about the money. When it comes down to it, Ian's done exactly what he was supposed to do, and Mickey's received exactly the services he wanted.

He'd pay it again.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Ian (9:30 PM):** I'm gonna go take a shower, Mick.

**Mickey (9:30 PM):** Have fun

**Ian (9:31 PM):** Might make it an early night, too. I'm training Amita, so I've gotta get to work earlier than usual.

**Ian (9:31 PM):** I'll text you before I go to sleep.

**Mickey (9:32 PM):** Ok

\-------------------------------------------------------

And Mickey thinks he's finished for now—that he's off taking his shower, getting his shit together for work tomorrow. He lays his phone on his stomach and stretches out, thinking an early night might actually be a very good idea.

But then, a couple minutes later, a new text comes in that makes his heart pound.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Ian (9:36 PM):** I liked you from the start.

\-------------------------------------------------------

He rubs a hand over his face. Closes his eyes. Smiles.

And _fuck_ , he's gotta give him something.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Mickey (9:38 PM):** You make me happy

\-------------------------------------------------------

It's the truest fucking thing he knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fun facts for Chapter 9  
> -This is actually only about ½ of what I’d intended for this chapter. It just got so long that I couldn’t fit in the rest. So! The rest will be Wednesday’s update. This is just to say that to the people I implied there’d be some steam to this chapter: Not a lie. Just didn’t get to it yet. Stay tuned. 😉
> 
> -I want to say a huge thank you to whaticameherefor for making an amazing banner/promo post for this fic. I can’t thank you enough. 💕 [Please check it out.](https://whaticameherefor.tumblr.com/post/617379202513108992/at-the-age-of-26-mickey-milkovich-gets-his-first) It’s perfect!
> 
> -I also want to thank MyFavoriteSong for the mall-walkers inspiration. I want you guys to listen to [“Guerrilla Radio”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n6cBRx2Ie6A) and imagine Mickey slowed down and annoyed, waving his hands around, his eyebrows bouncing, trying to get around a line of 70+ year olds in sweatsuits.
> 
> -I literally don’t know anything about how much individual sex acts would cost. So if these prices seem super high, it’s because this is an app that caters mostly to rich old dudes, and if they seem super low, it’s because it’s an app and not a high-class escort service, and if they seem just right, then I guess I’m lucky. 
> 
> -On the point of the prices, please note that it costs more to top Ian than to bottom for him. Same with fingering. 
> 
> -This isn’t necessarily relevant to this particular chapter, but if you wanna know what LRPD Ian’s body hair looks like, [it is exactly this](https://cameronmonaghanclan.tumblr.com/post/186117021326). In fact, I was thinking about pictures from this scene when I was first describing his body. So do with this what you will. 😎
> 
> -It's Ian's 24th birthday today! Also, please note that I'm super, embarrassingly aware of the fact that I have their ages fucked up in this. Mickey should be 25, not 26. When I'm finished with the whole thing, I'll probably go back and modify his age in order to make it correct.
> 
> I love you guys so, so much! And I appreciate you! I didn’t get a chance to reply to all the comments from the last chapter, but please, please know that I read every single one of them and would love to be able to comment a series of 💕💕💕💕 under each one. I genuinely look forward to your comments. They make me laugh, they make me cry, and they also make me turn into a puddle of goo because you’re so freakin’ kind. See you Wednesday!
> 
> Gray // [gallavichy](http://gallavichy.tumblr.com) // @GrayolaSays


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey gets to know his body. Ian sends something new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the 5-7 business days are up.
> 
> Warnings for two instances of super graphic masturbation. I don't do anything by half, y'all, so prepare for body fluids.
> 
> You're amazing. I hope you like this. It has the second-half-of-a-chapter vibe rather than one that completely stands on its own, in my opinion, and that's because that's what it was originally intended to be. However, last chapter was over 10k, and this chapter is also over 10k, and the only thing I can say is that I have a problem.

To say that Mickey smiles all Saturday morning is putting it lightly.

He checks his email when he wakes, stomach twisting as he skims and then deletes the “We’re Sorry to See You Go!” email from kestrel.

He has another—clearly automated—email from Ian, which just makes him snort with a laugh as he reads every stupid fuckin’ pre-written word.

\-------------------------------------------------------

_Dear Mickey,_

_Thank you so much for being such an amazing client! I have greatly enjoyed our time together, and I am sad to see you go! Please know that I am always here for you should you decide to re-subscribe in the future._

_Because I am so sorry to see you go, I am offering you an exclusive, 15% off coupon code valid for 30 days. Please reply to this email with the words RESUB in order to receive the coupon code as well as other exclusive offers from kestrel._

_I hope our flight paths cross again someday._

_Sincerely,_

_Ian_

\-------------------------------------------------------

After reading, he immediately takes a screenshot and sends it to Ian.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (9:28 AM):** This is so fuckin embarrassing

 **Mickey (9:28 AM):** How much of this did you write

 **Ian (9:32 AM):** Bitch, here I am at work, trying to save the world, and you’re making fun of my beautiful farewell letter. I’m disappointed. 😞

 **Ian (9:32 AM):** But also literally none of it. In fact, this is the first I’m seeing of it.

 **Ian (9:33 AM):** I think the “flight paths” line just gave me a couple hives.

 **Mickey (9:33 AM):** That’s sayin a lot coming from your corny ass

 **Ian (9:34 AM):** 🖕

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey smiles, puts his phone on the nightstand, and stretches, arms-over-head. He feels the pleasant pull of his abdominal muscles, hears the crack of his shoulders, and _groans_ , this deep, satisfying stretch-groan that makes Jovi hop down off the end of the bed.

Picking the phone back up, he scrolls through Instagram one-handed, sliding his left hand absently into his boxers. And he isn’t actually planning to jerk off. He’s just feeling warm and pleasant and _good_ right now, as he gently combs his fingers through his pubic hair and pets at his mostly-soft cock—just runs the base of it between the V of his middle and index fingers and strokes along the side of it with his thumb.

On Instagram, Ian’s posted a waist-up picture of himself and his trainee, tagged as Amita Kumar, leaning against the side of an ambulance. He’s in his blue, short-sleeved collared shirt with the EMS badge, name pin, and American flag patch on the arm, and he’s got his arms crossed like he’s posing for some stupid-ass medical magazine. Amita, a tall twenty-something with a long, dark ponytail and a Venus symbol tattoo on the side of her neck, is grinning and pointing finger-guns at the person taking the picture.

“Day 3. Let’s do this,” the caption reads. Mickey likes the photo.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (9:40 AM):** Thanks. 😊 Send me a picture of you?

\-------------------------------------------------------

It’s strange to Mickey that the question doesn’t cause that heart-kick he’s used to—that rush of adrenaline that gives him Jell-o arms, that makes his breath speed with nerves. 

He’s got the twisting in his belly, though, and he gently slides his hand out of his boxers and rubs at it, right above his navel, feeling himself—his sleep-warm skin, just the faintest bit of fuzz, the firmness of his abdominal muscles. 

His shirt’s off, and the covers are pulled up to his shoulders. 

Considering, he quirks his mouth, then shrugs at the comforter until it falls down, exposing his upper abdomen, pecs, and up.

Mickey feels his nipples harden in the cool air of his apartment, and he bites at his lip as he opens up the app and flips on the front-facing camera. 

There’s a bit of a beard shadow on his jaw, and his hair’s a mess. But well, Ian’s _into him_ , and it’s fuckin’ early on a Saturday, and Mickey’s feeling _calm_.

For once in his fuckin’ life he feels _maybe a little bit okay_.

He holds the phone up and angles it so that everything he wants to show is in view, and then snaps a photo.

And y’know, it’s fine. It’s actually _maybe a little bit good_.

He puts on the Noir filter, turning the image a high-contrast black and white, and sends it to Ian.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (9:49 AM):** Damn. 👍

 **Ian (9:49 AM):** I approve.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey grins so wide his fuckin’ face hurts.

\---  
\---

He has a good day.

FedEx delivers Mrs. Callaghan’s new TV at around lunch time, and Mickey goes down to unbox it, install the stand, and set it up for her.

While he’s working, she makes him a grilled cheese sandwich with tomato soup and sways around her kitchen to The Beach Boys’ _Pet Sounds_ album with a glass of Franzia in one hand and a spatula in the other.

He watches her for a second when he’s done. She hasn’t noticed him yet and is happily bopping her head and tapping her foot to “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” while she pours him a glass of lemonade from a carafe. 

She’s about seventy-five, with curly gray hair that hangs messily from a disheveled bun, and her clothing, jewelry, and makeup always suggest that she’s perpetually stuck in the Summer of Love, everything long and flowy and bright. An aged hippy, really. 

Mickey likes her. 

At least, he likes her until she catches on to the fact that he’s finished with his work and proceeds to grab him by the upper arms, pulling him into the kitchen. 

“Uh,” he sputters as she pulls at him, trying to get him to dance with her. “No. _No_.” 

She’s grinning at him, and he’s smiling and blushing but definitely _not_ dancing to this shit, no matter how much she tugs and rocks his arms, as if trying to move him like a child playing with a doll.

“Come on, Love Bug,” she says, trying to charm him into it, but he adamantly refuses, gently shrugging her away before catching a dish towel to the face as she tosses it at his head.

“We’re gonna have to get some fun into you,” Mrs. Callaghan chides with a fondness in her voice, watching as he has a seat at her little kitchen table and immediately takes a huge bite out of one of the triangular halves of grilled cheese on his plate.

“No thanks, Mrs. C.,” he says with his mouth full.

“Get you a nice girl who’ll take you dancing.”

“Fuck no.”

“Who’ll get you all loved up, grumpy boy.”

He makes a strangled sound and spends the next seven minutes scarfing down the sandwich, soup, and lemonade so he can make the quickest retreat of his life.

She’s a lot to handle sometimes. He thinks Ian would fuckin’ love her. Soft bitch would probably dance with her. Gossip with her about him.

He smiles as he climbs the stairs to his second-floor apartment.

For the rest of the day, he finishes painting the base moulding in the living room white while smoking, listening to The 88, and slowly making his way through a six pack. 

Everything’s starting to come together in his place. He’s got the living room and kitchen walls Dreamscape Gray, his bedroom Orion Gray, and his bathroom Supernova, which is a mid-toned, well, _gray_.

“What’s your favorite color? 😑” Ian had asked him when he’d sent him room pictures a few nights ago. 

It looks nice, he thinks. His furniture’s mismatched, the wood colors varied and clearly purchased piece-by-piece at random rather than as a set, and he’s still gotta get some shit on the walls and maybe a few shelving units. But it looks better, and he’s a little fuckin’ proud of himself when he folds up the drop cloth on Saturday evening and holds it to his chest as he looks around.

\---

He makes himself two burgers for dinner and eats them while streaming the last half of a pirated horror movie he started the day before on his laptop. 

At eight, he sends a new set of apartment pictures—complete with the newly-painted white baseboards—to Ian.

“I really love it!” he texts back, and then the two of them proceed to text for forty-five minutes about design ideas, Ian sending Amazon links to white frames he thinks would be cool to put up, displaying posters for Mickey’s favorite bands and movies. Mickey eats a handful of mini Reese’s Cups and clicks the links as Ian sends them, even going so far as to search them up on his laptop in order to get a better look. 

By nine-thirty, he’s ordered four posters of various sizes and four white frames to match, and he’s in the process of searching for a new shower curtain when Ian texts him for the first time in half an hour.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (9:33 PM):** By the way, I should probably give you this stuff:

\-------------------------------------------------------

And he sends Mickey his personal email address and Facebook and Snapchat usernames.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (9:34 PM):** You wanna send me your SSN too

 **Ian (9:34 PM):** 🖕

 **Mickey (9:35 PM):** All known aliases

 **Mickey (9:35 PM):** What’s your blood type

 **Ian (9:35 PM):** I’m bringing out the gun, bitch. 🔫

 **Mickey (9:36 PM):** 🔪🔪

\-------------------------------------------------------

Grinning, Mickey unwraps another Reese’s Cup and pops it into his mouth before searching Ian up on Facebook.

He finds that old profile he’d looked at months ago—the night of the stupid Instagram incident—and sends him a friend request.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (9:39 PM):** It’s commonly considered creepy to request someone when you have a completely blank profile, you know.

 **Mickey (9:39 PM):** Good thing I don’t give a fuck

\-------------------------------------------------------

Ian accepts his request, and Mickey spends the next ten minutes exploring.

Ian clearly doesn’t use Facebook much anymore, as the last thing he posted was a photo album from 2018 featuring pictures from his niece’s third birthday, which really just looks like a boozy, Gallagher-style party. 

There is one good thing about his profile, though: Ian has pictures dating back to 2010, and Mickey about flips his shit looking through all the old pictures of the little skinny, dorky-ass ginger with the stupid bangs.

The funniest thing is that it’s obvious that Ian thought he looked _so fuckin’ cool_ when he posted them.

One picture, in particular, gets to him. It’s from 2010, making Ian fourteen, and he’s skinny as a rail and in a pair of blue swim trunks, skin day-glow pale and somehow _way_ more freckled than it is now. He’s grinning crookedly, holding up a peace sign, and wearing a pair of neon green Wayfarer-style sunglasses. His hair is gelled so that it sticks up in the front, and really, it’s the absolute nerdiest fucking shit.

Mickey immediately screenshots it and sends it to Ian.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (9:47 PM):** 🖕🖕

 **Ian (9:47 PM):** I knew giving you my Facebook was gonna be a mistake.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey’s phone rings, then, and he just smiles and answers it with barely a glance at the screen.

“This is the funniest shit I’ve ever seen,” he says, breaking into a laugh.

“Fuck you, Mick. Please tell me you have a fuckin’ MySpace or something I can use to find blackmail material.”

“Didn’t even have fuckin’ wifi until this year.”

Ian grumbles, and then Mickey can hear him chew something crunchy, like a chip. “We did go to the same school. I can probably find an old yearbook or something at the library.”

“As if you’d go all the way to a fuckin’ library to find a picture of me.” Mickey stands up from the couch, carrying the bag of mini Reese’s Cups with him to the kitchen because _fuck_ , he’s gotta get them out of arm’s reach. He grabs a beer from the fridge, instead.

Ian _mm_ s, and it’s sexy for some reason, the way he does it. “Mickey Milkovich, you don’t know the _lengths_ I’ll go.”

And _that’s_ also sexy for some reason.

They giggle a little together while Mickey opens his beer. 

Then they’re quiet for a minute as Mickey drinks and Ian crunches away at whatever he’s eating.

“So I got your ratings for me today.” He takes another bite—crunches, crunches—and Mickey almost wants to ask him what he’s got in his mouth.

He sniffs. “Ratings?”

“The cancellation survey.” He pauses, and now he’s taking a drink of something. Swallows. “Saw lots of fives on there, Mick.”

“Lied my ass off,” Mickey grumbles, though his lips are slowly turning up into a smile. “You were unprofessional as fuck.”

“I _loved_ being unprofessional with you.”

Mickey immediately turns red. And _he is_ , isn’t he? Ian’s gonna just _say shit_ like that out loud. And it’s only gonna get worse, now, right—now that they’re fuckin’ _into each other with romantic intent_ and Mickey’s not paying sixty-five bucks a week to talk to him.

He leans over the countertop and rests his forehead for a second on the cool granite.

“You just blurt out everything you fuckin’ feel, don’t you?” Mickey asks. And though he tries for gruffness, it just comes out sounding soft and genuine, like a nervous question.

There’s a breathy laugh, and Ian answers with, “If I didn’t, we’d just be breathing at each other down the line.”

That’s fair. Mickey takes a drink of his beer and holds the liquid in his mouth for a minute, thinking. He swallows.

“Guess you got all the time in the world for fuckin’ your geriatric clients, now.”

“Guess so.” Ian sounds a little amused, and Mickey gets that feeling he sometimes gets—that feeling that Ian’s reading him like a book.

Mickey takes a couple more gulps of his beer and grabs a paper towel off the roll to wipe up some of the condensation that’s dripping onto the counter.

“So. Uh,” he asks, giving his bottle a swipe. “How many are you fuckin’ right now?”

It’s the first time he’s ever asked it, and he’s not sure why he’s asking it now other than because he and Ian are _into each other with romantic intent_ , and Mickey just really wants to know everything about him, even the shit he’s shied away from before.

Ian sniffs, then there are some staticky breath sounds—an inhale, a blown out exhale. “Just two right now.”

And though he’s asked the question fair and square, Mickey doesn’t know how exactly to respond to it. Part of him wants to know every single detail—every sex act the clients have ever purchased, every position, every time they’ve made Ian come—but the other part wants to know absolutely nothing.

Ian’s quiet for the longest time, the silence broken only by intermittent chewing and the staticky sounds of his breaths.

Finally, when Mickey’s about to say something to change the subject, Ian murmurs, “You want me to tell you about ‘em?” And he sounds so soft, so gentle, that Mickey’s first thought is that he wants to say, “Fuck you, man. I ain’t a jealous pussy.”

But what he says instead is, “Yeah. Whatever.” And he sounds fuckin’ soft again, himself. 

Ian _hmm_ s and goes on to tell Mickey about his clients.

The first one—The Dentist—has been Ian’s client for two months now, and they’ve met up four times. He’s about fifty, quiet, tips exclusively in Benjamins, and always orders a sixty-nine without completion followed by a doggy-style fuck.

The second—The Marvel Guy—wears Avengers T-shirts and likes handjobs and blowjobs. He’s nerdy, and he talks a lot, and he has a tattoo on his upper arm of Captain America’s shield.

Ian’s clinical as hell when he talks about them—acting as if he’s simply reporting information with no emotion attached.

“There are other clients too, sometimes,” he says, voice even. “A lot of men sign up for the package just to meet up once, then cancel. These two are my regulars, I guess.”

Mickey scratches at the nighttime stubble slowly growing in on his jawline, and then takes a few pulls off his beer. “So like. You really don’t care about fuckin’ ‘em?”

Ian makes a little hum sound, as if to indicate a shrug. “Nah, man. It’s just like, physical sex shit.” He pauses, and Mickey hears him twist the cap off a drink that makes a _sssss_ from the carbonation. “I don’t wanna do _anything_ with these guys other than what they request, so.” He sniffs. “It’s not like, meaningful shit.”

“Meaningful shit.” Mickey turns his beer bottle in a slow circle on the countertop.

“ _Mm_. Y’know.”

“Yeah.”

“Like, not a _wanna kiss every inch of you_ kinda thing.”

And something about that _gets to him_. Mickey exhales hard out his mouth, and he knows, he fuckin’ _knows_ Ian can hear the static from it on the other end of the line.

His stomach _twists_.

And he wants to ask him, “Do you have a lot of sex in general?” And he wants to ask him, “I know you don’t have a boyfriend, but are you hooking up with dudes? Are you doing _meaningful shit_ with guys right now on your own time?” 

But he doesn’t. He simply _hmm_ s a bit, prompting Ian to make a slightly nervous, sucking sound with his teeth in response.

And it’s awkwardly silent for a minute or two, Ian and Mickey largely spending the time simply breathing, simply drinking their respective drinks.

“Y’know,” Ian starts suddenly, and it’s after such complete silence that Mickey jumps slightly—bumps his front teeth a bit on the lip of his beer bottle.

“Hm?”

Ian swallows. “You told me that you’ve never, like. Been with a guy.”

Mickey sets down his beer bottle. Where the fuck’s he going with this shit? His heart gives a little kick.

“Well,” he continues, voice soft, soft. “I just want you to know that I’ve never had like. Meaningful shit.” He pauses for a minute, thinking. “With someone my age, y’know. Like, real shit.”

Mickey blows out a breath, slow, slow, and knows Ian means _wanna kiss every inch of you_ shit.

And he’s stumbling, and he’s nervous, but he just _keeps fuckin’ talking_. “I mean, I’ve had a ton of sex, but it’s _all_ been like, for fun, or for clients, or just to get off with somebody ‘cause I’m horny.” 

_Or with a fuckin’ pedo_ , Mickey adds mentally.

Ian pauses for several seconds before finishing with, “So I guess I’m sorta inexperienced, too.”

Mickey huffs a laugh—a breathy thing—and murmurs, “Yeah, well. I still think your _tons of sex_ puts you at a bit of an advantage on that front, man.”

“Maybe.”

Ian quiets down a little, like he’s thinking. Mickey grabs another Reese’s Cup from the bag on the counter and unwraps it. “What’s up?” he asks mid-chew when Ian doesn’t say anything for a while.

There’s a breathy little huff, and Ian says, “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“I dunno. I just want it one day, y’know?” He laughs, and he sounds endearingly embarrassed and fuckin’ sweet as hell. “I sound like a fuckin’ pussy.”

Mickey smiles. He rubs his hand across his mouth, back and forth, as if wiping away something on his lips. “It’s ‘cause you _are_ a fuckin’ pussy,” he says, and he can _feel_ Ian flipping him off.

“ _Ha-ha_. Fuck you.”

Mickey laughs, and it feels good. _He_ feels good, really. Because Ian Gallagher is _into him with romantic intent_ , and he wants to have meaningful sex with someone in the future, and well, Mickey wants to _kiss every inch of him_.

And that’s why he has the courage to say it, really. He has the courage to say it because he trusts where the words will land when they leave his lips.

“I dunno, man,” he starts, sniffing, thumbing at his nose. “I’d maybe wanna have it, too.” He bites his bottom lip, scrapes his top teeth up and down the skin of it before releasing it to say, “One day.”

He hears a burst of breath. Ian’s breathing out his mouth now, Mickey can tell, and he fuckin’ loves that he can make that happen. He wants to make it happen every fuckin’ day.

“Meaningful shit?” Ian asks.

Mickey nods to himself. “Yeah.”

It’s only ten-thirty, but this moment here—this soft, confessional moment—feels like those slices of one o’clock to one-fifteen softness that develop at the end of their late night conversations. 

And the lights are on, and Mickey’s still fully dressed, and he’s standing at the kitchen counter sneaking Reese’s Cups. 

Is this what it’s gonna be like now? Now that they know each other’s secret—now that they know they’re _into each other with romantic intent_? Is it just gonna be soft sometimes? More open?

“Good,” Ian says, so fuckin’ gentle. “Same page, then.”

Mickey _hmm_ s, and he smiles, and he grabs another Reese’s Cup.

This flavor of conversation mostly winds down after that. They talk about Mickey’s apartment, and Ian gives him more ideas for things to hang on the walls. Mickey asks his opinion on bathroom decor—color schemes, shower curtain patterns—and Ian jumps on his laptop and starts looking at shit with him. 

They email each other links for the better part of half an hour, and by the time they're ready to hang up for the night, Mickey’s got a pretty good idea of how he’s going to decorate his bathroom.

“You’re really good at this, Mick,” Ian says, and he sounds so genuine it makes Mickey smile.

Mickey flips off the lights in the living room and kitchen and makes his way into his bathroom. “I just know what I like,” he says, giving the room a once-over. 

It’s messy as fuck right now, all the shit that was against the walls moved to the center of the floor in an artless pile. But it looks so much fuckin’ better now that the walls are painted—all the scuff marks covered, the stained baseboards now white and clean.

“You like the color _gray_ ,” Ian muses, and Mickey can picture his smirk like he’s right in front of him.

“My favorite color’s blue, though.”

“Hey! Mine too.” Mickey hears Ian’s mattress creak.

And he wonders idly, randomly, whether Ian’s naked.

He’s seen him in bed a couple times, and he’s been both clothed and not, so Mickey doesn’t really have a clear idea of what he wears when he sleeps.

“You goin’ to bed?” Mickey asks, pulling his phone away from his ear to check the time. It’s nearly eleven.

“In a minute. I’m tired as fuck.”

Mickey _hmm_ s and unbuttons his jeans with his left hand, undressing for bed, himself.

“I wanna send you something first,” Ian murmurs, and he’s getting that late-night softness to his voice again.

With one hand, Mickey slides his jeans off his hips, then uses his feet to push them down his legs. “What is it?”

“It’s from this morning. I was gonna send it to you before I went to work, but I thought I should ask first.” Ian takes a deep breath, and there’s another mattress squeak where he shifts around. “It’s a video, so if it’s too much right now or whatever, you can just delete it on sight.”

Mickey’s breathing picks up. “What you doin’ makin’ videos at five in the morning?”

“I’m always so fuckin’ _horny_ in the morning.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Mickey grumbles, but he’s laughing at the end of it.

There’s a snort, and the smile in Ian’s voice is audible when he says, “Well, you apparently are too, bitch. You’d already jerked off when I called you.”

“Shut the fuck up. It was a _fuckin’_ Sunday.”

“Are you saying Sundays make you horny?”

“I’m sayin’ I don’t have to get up for work on Sundays.”

“So you’re saying Sundays are your long, leisurely masturbation mornings.”

Mickey feels like he’s been lit on fire. “Fuck you.”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday.”

“Congratulations. You know the days of the week.”

Ian’s quiet for a second, and Mickey has just enough time to consider changing the subject when he _hmm_ s and says, “Too bad I’m working.”

Mickey looks at himself in the bathroom mirror—standing there in his dark green boxers and black tank top. He pulls up his shirt a bit at the front and scratches at his stomach. Toys with the waistband of his underwear.

“Send me the video,” he says, taking a deep breath and reaching over to switch off the light.

\---  
\---

Mickey’s in bed when the video comes in, and when he sees the thumbnail, he closes out of iMessage for a minute to pull himself together.

His heart is beating so quickly that he feels the twitching of his pulse in his neck, feels his body ramp up. Feel sweat under his arms. He sits up for a second and pulls off his shirt before lying back down.

Biting his lip, he opens up the message again and presses to start the video.

Ian’s either got his phone on his tripod or propped up on somewhere on his bed.

It’s a mid-abdomen to upper-thighs shot, the angle giving Mickey a side-view primarily of his narrow hips and dick, and Ian’s naked and hard as a fuckin’ rock.

The video’s a little over four minutes long. Ian starts off by grasping his cock with a lube-shiny palm, giving himself several slow, thorough strokes from the base to the tip.

And the thing about this video is that the audio’s just fuckin’ _good_ , somehow, and Mickey can hear him breathing. It’s quiet in that room, and Mickey can hear Ian’s breaths and the gentle _shh_ sounds of the shifting sheets, and when he turns his phone volume all the way up, he can even hear the slick sounds of the lube on his cock as he strokes himself.

Mickey can feel his blood warm, turning from a steady surge to a hot, rolling boil that floods his belly, his thighs, rushes to his cock. He’s stretched out on his bed, left arm holding his phone up above his face as he watches the video, and with his right hand, he pushes down his boxers until they sit lopsided around his thighs.

He about loses it when Ian’s left hand makes an appearance, rubbing, petting at that ginger fuzz beneath his navel as his right hand speeds up on his cock. 

And Mickey’s stomach is _twisting_ as he watches this, and he can’t help but slide his own hand down to _his_ pelvic area, rubbing through all the hair he’s got there, gently touching at his cock, which is starting to stir, becoming plumper and pinker.

He gets a hand around himself at the point in the video when Ian’s thigh gives a little twitch, when he makes that same breathy fuckin’ punch-in-the-back _uh_ noise, the memory of which has driven Mickey to orgasm more times than he can count in the past week since they jerked off together over FaceTime.

Ian’s hand, which has been rubbing at the area below his navel, travels up, up and out of frame. Mickey sighs looking at it, knows he’s probably rubbing at his nipples, maybe pinching them, as his strokes speed.

Mickey’s fully hard by now, and his body’s not let him down yet with the copious amounts of fluid it produces, the pre-come starting to weep up out of him in clear, slippery beads that he massages over the head and down the shaft.

He feels so fuckin’ good right now, his eyes watching Ian pleasure himself while his fingers play in the stickiness he’s got rubbed onto the underside of his cock, massaging that sensitive spot.

Idly, he glances down at himself, sees that his chest is flushed, this rosiness spreading up from his thighs, up his belly and his sternum. There’s already pre-come in his pubic hair and a little on his lower abdomen where his dick rests when he’s got his hand off it, and he takes his hand and smears it around a bit before wrapping his fingers once more around himself.

That’s when Ian whispers, “Fuck, _fuck_ ,” and exhales heavily, and Mickey can tell he’s close. He’s flushed all fuckin’ over, so pretty and pink, and his cock’s started leaking—a sticky string of clear fluid for brief moments connecting the head of his dick with the skin of his belly.

Mickey’s hand speeds up on himself as he watches that fluid slide, slippery, in a drip from Ian, and he imagines touching it, licking it even, putting his whole mouth on Ian’s cock and just _feeling_ the pulse of him, feeling his thighs twitch around his head, hearing him gasp like he’s doing now in the video.

And Mickey’s cock is so fuckin’ wet, and there’s the most intense pressure, _pleasure_ building inside him as he moves his hand at a rapid pace. 

And if Mickey had thought that a single still picture of Ian’s cock after orgasm was the hottest thing he could ever see, he was sorely fuckin’ mistaken. 

At 3:39 in the video, Ian’s hand suddenly speeds up, moving in a blur as he jerks himself toward his peak, and Mickey hears him let out a shaky breath, followed by a pant, as his orgasm starts. Ian’s hand slows as he begins to come, and Mickey’s hand flies over himself as he watches it, feeling like his fucking stomach and his heart and his brain and the goddamn head of his cock’s gonna explode into a wet, gooey mess.

Ian drags his curled fingers up and down his cock at a slow, steady pace, and Mickey watches as best he can, groaning, hardly able to keep his eyes open, as a little surge of come shoots out, landing in that ginger fuzz beneath his navel, and then there’s a second, and a third, followed by a thick, dripping string of clearish fluid that gets all over his fist.

Mickey squeezes his eyes shut for a second, his skin hotter than it’s ever been, like someone’s set a fuckin’ match to him. Awkwardly, he scrubs his thumb backward along the timeline at the bottom of the video, rewinding it to just before Ian comes so he can watch it again.

His balls are drawn up tight against his body, and he feels a pulsing inside him, those muscles twitching, preparing to contract rhythmically as his body rushes toward its peak. Mickey watches Ian come again—sees the sticky, whitish fluid collected on his lower belly and slides his fingers through his own pre-come, massages the head for a second, before beginning a series of short, rapid strokes as he pulls out his pleasure, and fuck, _fuck_ —

He tries to breathe through it, taking deep, deep breaths and exhaling slowly, slowly, knowing that’ll prolong the pleasure. He scrubs his finger backward again so he can watch for a third time the end of the video, _panting_ , his body wound tight and tight and tighter, those muscle contractions beginning, his cock starting to pulse a bit, and that pre-come sliding out in one more fevered rush before the end.

And when it hits him, it’s _wrecking_ , and it’s intense, and it makes him drop his phone on the bed and get two fingers of his left hand pressed against his perineum, feeling the pulsing there as he shakes and shakes, as the pleasure builds until he can’t stand it.

He groans, and he has an idle observation of banging his ankle against his bedroom wall as he spreads his legs further, as he strokes himself fast and fast and then slow, slower, as he comes.

And he looks down for a second as it happens—watches the thick, milky fluid shoot out, the first bit getting him on the forearm and the subsequent two landing below his navel and dripping into his pubes, and he pants and _pants_ and hears Ian _talking_ somehow toward the end of it, toward the beginning of the hormone rush, the flood of endorphins and oxytocin and all these happy, happy little things that make him feel both strung out and warm and soft and in love.

He’s still panting as he lies all the way flat, running his sticky hands over his belly and his twitching thighs.

And he _smiles_ , feeling fuckin’ exhausted but so, so good.

Curious, he grabs his phone and opens up the camera so he can see himself. He’s red-faced, and there are drips of sweat at his temples, but he’s smiling with his teeth showing and fucking _god_ fucking dammit, he wants to kiss the _fuck_ out of Ian Gallagher.

And he _had_ heard him talking.

Quickly, Mickey switches back to the video and scrubs backward so he can watch the last twenty-five seconds of the video.

It’s after Ian’s come, and he’s sitting up and grabbing the phone off whatever he had it propped up on before falling backward onto that fucking pillow with the drool-ring stain. 

He’s sweaty as fuck, and he’s smiling like Mickey, and he’s beautiful, with sleepy morning eyes and a shadow of stubble at his beard line.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice is so soft and so fuckin’ sweet, as if he hadn’t just filmed himself jerking his dick. “Mornin’, Mick.”

And he stares into the camera for a second, as if thinking of something to say.

He bites his lip, then releases it so he can murmur, so soft, so sweet, “I’m so fuckin’ glad you cancelled.”

His eyes move around for a second, as if suddenly nervous, and then he gives an awkward goodbye and stops the video.

Mickey watches that last twenty-five seconds twice more, smiling the whole time, feeling the sweet calm of endorphins. 

Oxytocin.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (11:24 PM):** Did you delete it on sight?

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey laughs when the text comes in. Ian _knows_. Of course he fuckin’ knows. It’s why he waited to text him until approximately the amount of time it takes to masturbate to completion and have a quick rest. 

Motherfucker.

And y’know what? Whatever.

Mickey opens the camera app, holds out his phone, and takes a picture of his lower half, from his navel to the band of his shoved-down boxers at his thighs.

And when he looks at the picture afterward, he sees his flushed, wet, softening cock, his mussed and messy pubes, and the drips of come drying on his skin, and he’s hit with this sudden desire for Ian to _see_ that shit.

He’s embarrassed as fuck, sort of, and his face is red, and he’s got the beginnings of those Jell-o arms from the nerves, but he and Ian are _into each other with romantic intent_ , and Ian wants to have meaningful sex with _body kissing_ , and they’re on the same page, here, after all.

He sends the picture and holds his breath as he waits.

And waits.

And waits.

And it isn’t until nine minutes later that Ian responds.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (11:37 PM):** Fuck.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey turns his head into his pillow and _laughs_.

\---  
\---

And the thing is, now that Ian’s observed that Mickey’s cool with videos, they become a regular part of their methods of communication—even the non-sexual communication.

On Sunday afternoon, Mickey’s at Keane’s picking up groceries for the week, and Ian texts him a video.

He’s standing outside of a brick building in the shade, and something about the lighting makes his hair extra red, skin extra pale, and freckles extra dark. He looks beautiful, and he’s in his EMT uniform and drinking a Red Bull.

“I wanna file a complaint, Mickey Milkovich,” he says, looking stern. “I am the actual horniest motherfucker alive. Thank you for your time.”

Ian maintains the serious expression until a split second before he ends the recording, his face beginning to crack into a wide smile just as the video stops.

Why the hell haven’t they been sending each other videos this entire time?

Mickey holds his phone as if he’s texting and covertly records a response in the aisle of the supermarket, right in front of the canned soup.

“I’m so sorry for you,” he says, his voice exaggeratedly sympathetic.

A minute after he sends it, Ian texts him a row of five middle finger emojis, and Mickey smiles for the rest of his shopping trip.

\---

On Monday morning, Mickey sends Ian a video of Jovi curled up at the top of his head as Mickey lies in bed. In the video, Jovi’s snoring, and Mickey makes a confused face and tilts his eyes upward toward the furry, black form.

And he’s at work, making his way through his third cup of coffee of the day when Ian sends his response.

His hair’s a recently-washed damp and neatly backcombed, and he’s sitting in his tan recliner, dressed in that overwashed-thin gray T-shirt with the hole in the neck seam.

“My neighbors are having sex,” he says, and proceeds to stand up, walk to the other side of his room, and stand by the wall that connects his apartment to his neighbors’. 

There’s the faint sound of a woman’s moans, punctuated by the thumping of a headboard. Ian presses his lips together until they’re a straight line.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (11:04 AM):** That’s nothing. The couple upstairs from me bangs the house down on the regular

 **Mickey (11:04 AM):** Sounds like a fuckin exorcism

 **Ian (11:05 AM):** Mickey, she’s been repeatedly announcing that she’s coming for the past five minutes.

 **Ian (11:05 AM):** The dude’s either really good or really bad.

 **Ian (11:07 AM):** Well, he just came and I don’t think she ever actually did, so I guess I’ve got my answer. 

**Mickey (11:07 AM):** Thank you so much for the update. I just love picturing that shit

 **Ian (11:08 AM):** Anything for you. 😘  
\-------------------------------------------------------  
\---

 _Goddammit_ , Ian.

Mickey sends back a middle finger emoji.

And as the days go on, it continually surprises Mickey how much his like of Ian just fuckin’ grows.

Months ago, when they first started talking, he sort of figured he’d get tired of him at some point, maybe, or that the more he got to know him, the less he’d like about him.

But the more and more he talks to him, messages with him, sees his dorky-ass face in the videos he sends, the more he wants to fuckin’ _be_ with him, wants to like, _protect_ him and shit, which seems ridiculous but at the same time, feels natural as hell.

He gets _pissed_ when Ian tells him about dickheads that try to fuck with him—at either of his jobs—and he _worries_ about his ass when he’s tired or stressed or when Mickey thinks he’s working too much.

Along with that, though, he wants to fuckin’ _take him apart_.

Ian sends another video of him jerking off on Tuesday morning. It’s a chest-up shot of Ian on his bed, holding the phone up above him with his left hand as he masturbates with his right. And though it makes Mickey hard as hell, makes him come in three minutes flat as he watches the pleasure build in waves that dance across Ian’s face—watches his eyes move behind his closed eyelids, watches him bite and lick and press together his plush lips, watches his mouth drop open in that fuckin’ breathy _uh_ that sends Mickey reeling—it also makes him _ache_.

He wants to taste his nipples, wants to suck a hickey onto his neck, wants to smell his skin and his sweat and his breath.

He wants to fucking _be with him_.

He wants him in his bed, on his couch, in his kitchen.

But ain’t that a can of worms to open.

So no, he isn’t tired of him. In fact, he _likes_ him so fucking much he can’t stand it sometimes.

He likes him so much he gets all the fucking stupid-ass _butterflies_ in his stomach when he thinks about having him inside him.

And ain’t that the dumbest goddamn thing?

And that fact makes it extraordinarily awkward when Mrs. C. shows up at his door on Tuesday evening with a “discreet package.”

“The UPS man delivered it to me by mistake,” she says, handing it over along with a Tupperware container of chocolate chip cookies.

Mickey takes the box, heart thumping wildly as he gives it a once-over to make sure she hasn’t opened it.

He thanks her, and she squeezes his arm, says, “Have a good night, Love Bug,” and it would feel much nicer to Mickey if he hadn’t been holding a brown-boxed nine-inch dildo—seven inches insertable, medical grade silicone, soft exterior, firm core, “realistic skin-like feel.”

He sets it on his kitchen counter and then grabs a cookie from the Tupperware container and takes a bite.

He’d been working on figuring out colors for his kitchen cabinets ‘cause well, once he’s fuckin’ started with this home improvement shit he’s having trouble stopping. Ian had been texting him reference photos off-and-on for the last couple hours between doing shit around his own apartment and messaging with clients, and Mickey’d been standing in the kitchen with his laptop on the counter, clicking through various paint sites for a nice deep gray or black.

And he _tries_ to stay focused, munching on his cookie, looking at Behr’s color palettes and listening to Spoon, but all he can think about is the fake dick six inches to his left and the fact that he’s gonna put it up his ass.

See, Mickey’s never played with toys before, really. He had a pair of Ben Wa beads when he was a teenager—had stolen them from a sex shop and proceeded to keep them under his mattress for _months_ —but he didn’t have a fuckin’ lock on his door, and the one working bathroom was through his room, so it’s not like he had much privacy to leisurely try them out. 

He’s tried his fingers—does it on a fairly regular basis—but the satisfaction from that’s pretty minimal.

He just wants something to fill him up.

After a few more minutes of pretending to focus, Mickey closes his laptop, pulls a switchblade out of the junk drawer, and cuts open the box.

And okay, the dick looks much bigger than he’d thought it would be, honestly.

Mickey’s got a good enough cock. It’s about five and half inches erect and decently girthy. 

But it looks small as fuck in comparison to this motherfucker, and after removing it from its box, Mickey presses the flat bottom to his crotch and imagines his dick being that fuckin’ big when he’s hard.

 _Jesus Christ_.

He strokes his hand up and down it, giving it a feel. It’s nice and fairly realistically textured, with a good head on it with a dimpled slit and the ridge of a vein running along the side. 

Curious—and feeling like a fuckin’ idiot, honestly—Mickey takes it into his mouth just a little, pulling it to the edge of his throat, his belly giving a bit of a lurch as a precursor to a gag. He pulls off, licking and kissing at the head, and well, it may feel somewhat realistic, but it tastes like fuckin’ rubber.

He grabs the bottle of Sliquid lube he’d also purchased and takes the dildo into the bathroom to give it a wash.

\---

Mickey feels awkward when he lays out the towel on his bed and strips off his jeans and underwear. He’s got Ian’s first jerk off video queued up on his phone, and the dildo’s just lying there at the edge of the mattress, clean and sanitized.

Taking a deep breath, he grabs it and lies back on his pillows.

\---

The lube’s a little cold when he first touches his fingers to himself—when he rubs at his entrance before gently slipping in his middle finger, followed later by his index once he gets used to the first digit.

And this is really as much as he’s used to, he thinks, working those two fingers inside himself at a measured pace, until they’re moving smoothly, until there’s a slick, _squelch_ sound as he slides them in and out.

He adds a third finger, which he’s tried before, and this is where there’s a bit of resistance—where he has to close his eyes and breathe as he presses on, squeezing in his ring finger alongside the other two and giving a bit of a twist as he stretches himself out and gets accustomed to the fullness.

It feels good, really, after a while. There’s a burn, sure, but the feeling of being filled is a fuckin’ appealing one, is something that makes him grab at his cock with his left hand and start a slow, steady stroke.

The angle’s weird, as always, his leg pulled up so he can reach around to his ass and the dual task of stroking his dick with his left hand and thrusting in with the fingers of his right a little difficult to figure out for a minute. But it’s pleasant as fuck, and after a while, he feels the tingles start behind his balls, his arousal ramping up and up along with his breathing.

Groaning a bit, he slides his fingers out and picks up the dildo, which is lying by his left thigh.

And he _maybe_ licks at it a little, drags his mouth down the side and sucks at that vein—just practicing, really, as there’s no way in hell he ain’t putting his tongue on every centimeter of Ian’s cock.

He grabs the lube off his nightstand and slicks it up, taking a few seconds to jerk it, as well, and then as he presses the head to his entrance, he wonders what Ian’s face looks like when he slides inside somebody.

Does he close his eyes and bite his lip? Does he exhale heavily but maintain fuckin’ delicious eye contact?

It’s much harder working the dildo inside him than it was his fingers. It’s fuckin’ _big_ , and it hurts a little, this stretched-to-max-capacity feeling that gives Mickey a bit of a deep muscle ache. He pulls it out after a minute, adds more lube, and slowly, slowly works it in, in, deeper than he had it before.

It takes some getting used to at first, and he all but completely loses his erection in the process, but once he closes his eyes and imagines there’s a hot, freckled ginger attached to the dick inside him, imagines him framing him with his body, pressing kisses to his lips, his cheeks, his forehead, and slowly rocking in and out, gentle, so gentle, he starts to feel, well, _warm_.

Taking his cock in his left hand, Mickey begins to stroke as he gently slides the dildo in, then pulls back, then in a little deeper, then back.

And as he strokes, he starts to feel himself harden again, feels those pleasure tingles begin to roll through him as he thinks about being fucked by Ian, thinks about the weight of his body, thinks about that ginger fuzz rubbing against his abdomen, his strong arms hooked under Mickey’s shoulders, one hand cupping the back of his head as he moves.

He gets his phone once he’s started to leak—once the dildo’s sliding in and out smoothly and he’s able to thrust more firmly, more confidently. He turns the volume all the way up and plays the video of Ian jerking off as he fucks himself.

It takes a minute—takes some adjusting and some shifting—but eventually Mickey finds _the_ angle, _the_ exactly correct speed and motion to get the dildo grazing his prostate in the most _delicious_ , focused way. And he just thrusts and thrusts as he watches Ian rub at that hairy patch on his belly, watches that pre-come dribble from his slit in a viscous string as Ian gets more and more aroused.

And _fuck_ , Mickey’s leaking like never before. He actually spends a minute watching his untouched dick leak precome in a seemingly never-ending stream, the near-constant prostate stimulation driving more of that fluid out of him, _so much_ , in fact, that he’s forming a bit of a puddle at his lower belly.

It feels weird to think, but there’s something so _hot_ about it—about the sight of his own dick twitching and dribbling without even being touched. He moves his eyes back to the video, and he moves the dildo more and more firmly inside him in slow, hard thrusts that cause the head to press on his prostate in _all the right fuckin’ ways_ until he has to close his eyes a bit with it.

Ian’s about to come in the video, and Mickey holds it closer to his face as he watches and moves the dildo faster and faster inside him. And it’s not enough to come—could be, maybe, but isn’t now—but it feels _so fucking good_ that Mickey feels himself start to drool a little, even, his mouth just open as he pants and pants and forgets to swallow.

And then it’s the end of the video, and Ian’s talking, and Mickey thrusts and thrusts, harder and harder until he feels like he can’t take it anymore.

He quickly scrubs the video all the way back to the beginning, lays it on his upper chest so that he can hear it well, and places his hand on his cock.

It’s, by far, the wettest it’s ever been, his pre-come so copius that he’s actually wondering if it’s _normal_. 

And after a bit of fumbling, he manages a good, hard thrust in with the dildo in contrast with the quick, light strokes to his cock, and within just a few minutes, he feels a match light somewhere inside him, this sharp, tingling pressure beginning, simmering, burning outward and upward until he feels his abdominal muscles clench with it.

“Fuck. _Fuck_ ,” he whispers, and he’s making _sounds_ —like the fuckin’ sex sounds he hears in porn—and the build up to his climax feels _deeper_ this time, _hotter_ , this pleasure-ache that grows from that delicious burn to this _intense as all fuck_ tingle that spreads _everywhere_.

He’s not even sure when his orgasm starts, as it all melds together into this _ridiculously_ blissful sensation that seems to go on for _minutes_ , eventually ending in something more akin to the orgasm sensation he’s used to, only _hard_ , like somebody’s cranked up the dial on his body’s pleasure levels.

He squeezes his eyes shut as he listens to Ian breathe and breathe on the recording, and eventually he just has to open his mouth and make fucking _noise_. 

He groans, and he keens, and he moves the dildo in rabbit-kick thrusts, pressing against his prostate over and over again as the orgasm washes over him. 

And there’s _so much_ fucking come, and it’s more translucent than usual due to the prostate stimulation and shoots clear up his chest, two shots getting him in the sternum and one at his upper abdomen, and it just keeps coming and coming the more he moves the dildo inside him, pressing against that most sensitive of places and drawing out the deep, nearly unbearably pleasurable sensations.

After a minute, he can’t take it anymore. It’s too, too fucking much.

Panting like he’s run all four of his miles without a break, body pink and flushed and shining with sweat and come, Mickey moves his hand away from his cock and gently pulls out the dildo.

 _Holy fuck_.

Holy _fuck fucking fuck_.

His hands are fuckin’ gross, his right slippery with lube and his left with jizz, but he can’t even fuckin’ move right now to grab his boxers or something to wipe them on. No chance. 

No chance at all.

Idly, he rubs his sticky hands all over his body—stroking at his belly and his chest, his nipples. Running his fingers through his wet pubic hair, his softening cock, the warm, sweaty creases of his thighs. 

He’s positively _flooded_ with pleasure hormones, and he feels fuckin’ _high_.

Goddamn.

And the thought of spending this moment with Ian—of the two of them filled to the brim with oxytocin, all sweaty and floppy, their hands not letting each other go, just touching and touching and dragging their faces together for hot, open-mouthed kisses—about sends him over the edge, twists up his belly and makes his already limp arms _that much_ limper.

He inhales, blows out the breath, and, after wiping his hands off as best he can on his thighs and maybe a little bit on his comforter, grabs his phone.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (8:14 PM):** Hey

 **Ian (8:14 PM):** Hey!

 **Ian (8:15 PM):** What’s up?

 **Mickey (8:15 PM):** Nothing, just wanted to talk to you

\-------------------------------------------------------

And well, it’s not what he usually says, but it’s the truth. He just wants to talk to him. _He wants to be around him all the fuckin’ time._

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (8:16 PM):** You okay?

\-------------------------------------------------------

Just fucked himself half to death for the first time. Feeling a little vulnerable, a little floaty, a little warm. No big deal.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (8:16 PM):** Yeah

 **Mickey (8:17 PM):** I don’t know if you can talk now or whatever. It’s fine if you’re busy

 **Ian (8:17 PM):** I’m just busy talking to you. 

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey smiles and calls him.

And they don’t talk about anything of importance, really. Ian’s eating a barbecue chicken pizza and watching _The Office_ , and if he’s still texting his clients, he doesn’t say anything about it to Mickey.

They discuss Mickey’s choice in cabinet colors, and Ian tells him what he’s been doing with his time off, and it’s just a short, twenty-minute check-in at the end of the day.

Mickey’s still smiling when they say goodbye, and that smile just seems to hold on to his lips as he climbs off the bed, stretches, and then goes to take a shower.

His ass feels a little stretched, and he knows he’s gonna be sore as fuck the next morning, but he’s also feeling warm and pleasantly limp and _supremely_ satisfied. 

And it’s the endorphins talking, sure. But he’s feeling fuckin’ _good_ , and more than that, he feels warm and happy.

Fresh out of the shower, he stands in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom and takes a picture of himself.

He examines it afterwards. His hair’s damp and floppy on top, and his nipples are hard and tight from the cold air. His cock’s soft and nestled amongst his mussed, damp pubes, and his abdomen, while a little soft in areas, reveals traces of hard muscles.

And y’know, all in all, Mickey’s actually pretty okay with it.

He’s got a nonchalant look on his face, and he’s a little stubbly in a way that he thinks Ian likes.

So not thinking too hard about it, Mickey sends it to him.

His reply makes Mickey bite his lip as he pulls on a clean pair of boxers.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (9:06 PM):** I’m so attracted to you.

 **Ian (9:06 PM):** Like, inappropriately attracted.

 **Ian (9:06 PM):** In case that was something you wanted to know.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey smiles, his cheeks flaming up, and types a response.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (9:07 PM):** The fuck’s inappropriately attracted

 **Ian (9:07 PM):** 😏

 **Ian (9:08 PM):** It would be impolite of me to say.

 **Ian (9:08 PM):** I’m a fuckin’ gentleman. 😎

 **Mickey (9:09 PM):** Gentleman my ass

 **Ian (9:09 PM):** Oh, so you DO understand what I mean, then. 😉

\-------------------------------------------------------

Gentleman Mickey’s ass. _Jesus Christ_ , he’s embarrassing.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (9:10 PM):** You’re embarrassing

 **Ian (9:10 PM):** Sure. But see, I have it on good authority that we like each other, so I’m thinking you can overlook some of it in the name of romance.

 **Mickey (9:10 PM):** Oh really

 **Ian (9:11 PM):** Yes, really. 

**Mickey (9:11 PM):** We like each other huh

\-------------------------------------------------------

Okay, he’s flirting here. Like, blatant shit. 

And well, his stomach’s twisting a bit.

Biting his cheeks to hold back a smile, Mickey sits down on his bed in his boxers and watches the dots dance as Ian types.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (9:12 PM):** So much.

 **Mickey (9:12 PM):** So much?

 **Mickey (9:13 PM):** And this is me too?

 **Ian (9:14 PM):** All day, all night, man. 😎

 **Mickey (9:14 PM):** Interesting

 **Mickey (9:15 PM):** So you’re saying that I like you

\-------------------------------------------------------

He drops backwards onto his pillows and just fuckin’ grins.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (9:15 PM):** That’s exactly what I’m saying you cute, flirty bitch.

 **Mickey (9:16 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (9:16 PM):** 😏

\-------------------------------------------------------

They’re quiet for a minute. Mickey tap-tap-taps his fingers against the sides of his phone and waits for Ian to text.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (9:20 PM):** Dinner again Friday night?

 **Mickey (9:21 PM):** Ok

 **Ian (9:21 PM):** It’ll be our third date. You know what that means.

 **Mickey (9:22 PM):** You reveal your true form

\-------------------------------------------------------

And Mickey was really just trying to set up a vampire joke, but well, it’s _Ian_.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (9:22 PM):** More that I’d be interested in us revealing our true forms. To each other.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 _Goddammit_ , Ian.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (9:23 PM):** I think I showed you my true form 20 minutes ago

 **Ian (9:23 PM):** I wanna see you come.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Well.

For all the fact that they’re sort of joking about putting out after the third date, that sure as hell throws Mickey for a second.

And it’s clear to Ian, who messages him after a couple minutes of no response.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (9:25 PM):** Sorry. Is that too much?

\-------------------------------------------------------

Sort of. He just talks _so fucking much_ , doesn’t he?

But well, Mickey’s _so attracted_ to him. Like, _inappropriately attracted_.

And he wants him inside him.

Mickey ignores Ian’s question and focuses, instead, on how he wants to see him come.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (9:26 PM):** Only if I get to see you

\-------------------------------------------------------

And he realizes, here, that they’re talking about jerking off again together. But this time they’re planning it. Making time for it. Making room.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (9:27 PM):** Of course.

\-------------------------------------------------------

It’s gonna be after dinner, and after talking, and they might be a little giggly because shit always gets giggly with them after a while.

And there’ll be undressing together, and maybe some whispers, and it might be leisurely, this time. Slow.

Mickey sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. 

Thinks. 

Types.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (9:28 PM):** It’s a date

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fun facts about Chapter 10  
> -This fic is in no way, shape, or form going to definitely be exactly fifteen chapters. I’m just keeping the /15 up there as a general guide for its length until I know more specifically. At this point, I’m thinking it’ll be more like 17.
> 
> -Mickey’s music in this chapter is brought to you by his 5x04 T-shirt (The 88) and the Spoon poster on his bedroom wall. Side fun fact: The 88 is the band behind the _Community_ theme song.
> 
> -All of Mickey’s wall colors are real. There’s the [Dreamscape Gray](https://www.behr.com/consumer/ColorDetailView/T15-6) of his living room and adjoining kitchen, the [Orion Gray](https://www.behr.com/consumer/ColorDetailView/N510-6) of his bedroom, and the [Supernova](https://www.behr.com/consumer/ColorDetailView/N510-4) of his bathroom. Y’know, it’s gonna be a pretty uniformly-colored apartment, but it’s gonna look great when he’s finished. Also, Mickey’s proud of himself, and we all need to just hug the hell outta him and love this journey he’s on.
> 
> -When Ian’s on video telling Mickey about his neighbors having sex, imagine him in his 10x12 post-shower look, minus the broken leg, with his combed-back wet hair, gray T-shirt (though the one in this fic is more threadbare), and checkered boxers. 
> 
> -When Mickey’s being playful and flirty, I want you to imagine the energy of the Tamale Kiss scene.
> 
> -I looked at a picture of myself from 2010 on my own Facebook as inspiration for Ian’s neon green sunglasses. I had these bright orange knock-off Wayfarers that I wore with so much pride, and I thought I looked _cool as fuck_ in that picture.
> 
> Love you all so, so much. Thank you for the continued support. You’re amazing.
> 
> Big things are coming, guys. Just a preview for the upcoming chapters (plural--not implying the biggest thing in the next chapter). 😉 I love your enthusiasm for them. They _are_ going to meet. I promise. Love is gonna win so fuckin' hard.
> 
> Gray // [gallavichy](http://gallavichy.tumblr.com) // @GrayolaSays


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian and Mickey have their third date. 😉

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Ian ain’t exactly subtle, and Mickey has a realization.
> 
> Warning for a very, very brief mention of past domestic violence.
> 
> The ride’s nearing the top, guys. We’re not there yet, but we’re getting really, really close.
> 
> Hope you enjoy. It’s another long one, friends.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (12:34 AM):** You get that 12 inch monster dildo yet?

\-------------------------------------------------------

It’s Thursday night, and the two of them have apparently foregone their late-night phone call in favor of texting.

And well, Mickey’s just been turned on his side, his comforter pulled up over his entire head with only his face exposed, one arm outstretched so he can text, and Ian’s gone and hit him with something that it’s _entirely_ too late at night to deal with.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (12:36 AM):** Don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin about

\-------------------------------------------------------

His face has gone all red—he can feel the heat in his skin—and _really_ , is this dumbass motherfucker actually starting up a conversation about the nine-inch dildo—seven inches insertable, medical grade silicone, soft exterior, firm core, “realistic skin-like feel”—that’s currently in his nightstand drawer?

 _Goddammit_ , Gallagher.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (12:37 AM):** I’m really interested in your life, Mickey. 😏

 **Mickey (12:37 AM):** Like fuck you’re interested in my life, you nosy motherfucker 🖕

 **Ian (12:37 AM):** Now I’m just offended that you think so little of me.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey shoves the comforter off his head and twists until he’s on his belly, elbows to the mattress and hands grasping his phone in front of him.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (12:38 AM):** So. Which one did you get? 🍆

 **Mickey (12:39 AM):** I can’t stand you

 **Ian (12:39 AM):** Pretty sure that’s not true. 

**Mickey (12:39 AM):** 🖕🖕🖕

 **Mickey (12:40 AM):** Go to bed.

 **Ian (12:40 AM):** Not until we have a thorough discussion about the dildo you ordered.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey hates him.

He calls him.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” he asks as soon as the call connects, twisting over onto his back and tugging the comforter up under his armpits.

Ian’s laughing like a fuckin’ sleep-drunk kid, and Mickey can’t help but smile at it, his carefully schooled expression slipping away.

“Mickey,” he says, and he sounds so bright and happy and so, so goddamn _affectionate_. “I want you to tell me about your dildo.”

“ _Why_ are you like this?”

Ian laughs again. “Bitch, you’re still not denying that you got one.”

Mickey sucks his bottom lip. _Hard_. “You’re a dick.”

“Mm _hmm_.”

There’s a moment of pleasant silence then, this breath-filled period in which Mickey _knows_ Ian’s smiling. And _goddammit_ , he’s smiling like a motherfucker, too. Blushing, maybe.

And he can tell there’s about to be a tone shift. There’s the quiet rustling of Ian’s blankets as he twists to get comfortable, and there’s a little staticky sigh.

“You don’t have to tell me about it,” Ian murmurs—soft, gentle, kind. “But you _did_ get one, though.”

Mickey sniffs and then wipes his hand down his face. “Yeah.”

It’s embarrassing to admit.

It’s not like sex toys are something that freak him out _in general_. He’s been in sex shops for the fun of it; he’s grown up with a sister who just openly had a fuckin’ _drawer_ full. His brothers had their stolen Fleshlights and shit. Goddamn Iggy fucked a grapefruit when they were teenagers and proceeded to brag about it to the entire family as they sat around together, filing serial numbers off guns.

So, it’s not the sex toy thing.

It’s the fact that it’s a fuckin’ _dildo_ , and well, Mickey’s talking to the guy whose dick he pretends it is as he slides it in and out of himself. 

And he really doesn’t think anybody can blame him for feeling a little like a fuckin’ idiot.

Ian snuffles a bit, sleepy, and whispers, “Had you ever used one before?”

Mickey sighs. _Of course_ Ian isn’t gonna drop it. 

He presses his palm to his eyes—one at a time—and, y’know, whatever. Fuck it.

“No,” he says. And he could fight it, and he could take this suddenly-soft tone and push it back to giggly teasing in a second. 

But an ever-growing part of him knows that, well, this is Ian.

And they’re _into each other with romantic intent_ , and they have a date tomorrow, and they’re most likely gonna have some semblance of FaceTime sex, and.

Well, more than anything, Mickey just likes him _so fucking much_.

To Mickey’s “no,” Ian breathes into the phone in a way that sounds open-mouthed, and it makes Mickey’s heart speed up.

“Do you like it?” he asks after a few moments of breathing, voice soft and sweet like spun sugar.

Mickey sniffs. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

And it’s different, this—that late-hour softness coming on quickly, running the risk of melding with their current discussion into something both soft _and_ sexual.

There’s a breath sound—inhaling, exhaling, real, real slow—and then Ian murmurs, “I’m really glad you’re into that.”

He says it in such a way that sends this surge of warmth through Mickey’s belly. Because there’s a _reason_ he’s glad, and it makes Mickey ache to think about that reason, to think about that desire realized.

And this is why he does it, really. He’s breathing a little hard, and his belly’s twisting, but he opens up Safari on his phone, finds the webpage for his dildo, and texts the link to Ian.

“I, uh,” he starts, pausing for a moment to breathe hard once, twice out his mouth. “Sent you the link to the thing.”

There’s about a minute of silence—Ian likely checking out the site—and Mickey half-holds his breath through it, belly twisting, twisting when he thinks of Ian’s eyes on that page, seeing the dildo that’s maybe not completely unlike Ian’s cock and reading about its features.

“Looks like a good one,” Ian says finally, and he sounds so casual about it—like he’s discussing one of Mickey’s shower curtain options—that it almost gives him pause.

“Yeah,” he says, voice a little awkwardly pitched. “It’s pretty, uh.” Mickey sucks at his teeth for a second—stalling, really. “Realistic. I guess.”

Ian _hmm_ s, and Mickey knows Ian’s viewing this as an in, as an indication that it’s fine to ask more questions.

“Does it feel good? Like, the size?” he asks, and he sounds _nervous_ again, like when he was asking Mickey about whether it was alright to show his come in the requested masturbation pictures.

Mickey drags his top teeth up and down his bottom lip, feeling a bit of the dry skin there come loose. He bites at it. “Yeah. It’s kinda _big_ , I guess, but.”

“Cool.”

And well, that’s a little awkward, isn’t it?

“But it’s.” And Mickey doesn’t know why he’s still talking, really. He’s started the fuckin’ sentence, and he’s not even sure where it’s gonna take him, the words coming out in broken stops and starts.

“It’s, uh. It’s big, but I get used to it, and. I like it.”

Ian blows out a breath. “Good.”

And it’s so weirdly tense for a minute that Mickey starts wracking his brain for _more_ shit to say, goddammit, and he feels a little bit like he’s grasping, sort of, like he’s trying to snatch something out of the air that he desperately needs.

But then right when he’s almost got it—right when he’s about to open his mouth—Ian continues.

“It’s just.” And he _snickers_ , shyly, almost. “I dunno. I’m like, kinda that size, so.”

Mickey’s keenly aware that there’s an implication, here, that Ian’s gonna fuck him at some point with his dick—nine inches, apparently, probably over seven inches insertable. He feels a small pulse in his _own_ dick, in fact, and casually slides his hand down inside his boxers for nothing other than to pet at himself a little.

And it’s _so_ like Ian to not be done, and it occurs to Mickey that he must be suffering from a bit of the late-night-grasping as well.

“I’m glad it feels good to you ‘cause _I_ wanna, y’know. Feel good. To you.”

Mickey gets another pulse from that, and his belly twists harder than it ever has. And he doesn’t know what he should say, really. He _wants_ to say, “What are you even _saying_ ,” and he wants to say, “I can’t believe we’re havin’ this fuckin’ conversation,” and he _really_ wants to say, “ _Goddammit_ , Gallagher.”

And somehow, _somehow_ what he actually says is more than all of that combined. 

He breathes, and he breathes, and he murmurs, “Pretty sure that’s gonna be a given, man.”

The second it leaves his lips, he squeezes his eyes shut. Pulls his hand out of his boxers and presses the back of his wrist over his eyes. _Jesus_ , that was a lot.

Ian’s lost his breath a bit, and Mickey’s made it happen, and really, saying the most _embarrassing_ fuckin’ shit’s worth it if only for that.

“Yeah?” Ian asks, his voice softer than it’s been all night.

Mickey swallows and pulls his arm away from his face. “Yeah.”

“I was being serious, y’know. When I said a while ago that I wanted to make it good for you.”

Mickey _hm_ s.

And Ian’s voice gets even softer, softer, if that’s possible, as he continues with, “I’m gonna take my time. Touch you all over.”

He puts his arm back over his eyes. 

“Kiss every fuckin’ inch of you.”

“Okay, okay,” Mickey says, a breathy laugh creeping up into his words, his lips tilted upwards, stomach twisting and twisting.

And the smile in Ian’s voice is audible when he says, “Are you blushing?” 

“Shut the fuck up.”

Ian laughs then, and it’s so happy and bright that Mickey has to press the back of his hand over his lips to keep from making a stupid-ass _noise_ like a fuckin’ middle school girl.

 _Goddammit_.

“Alright, go to bed. We discussed the fuckin’ _thing_.”

“Oh, the _thing_ , huh?”

“I’m leaving.”

Ian _snorts_ , and Mickey smiles and presses his tongue against the corner of his mouth. 

“Night, Mick,” he says, and his voice is soft and amused.

Mickey presses his lips together, and then, after a moment of silence, says, “Night, Ian.”

\---  
\---

Mickey spends the entire workday on Friday with his stomach in _knots_ , sort of—this funny, slightly nauseous sensation that’s exacerbated whenever he thinks about their quote, unquote _date_ that night.

It’s a dumb fuckin’ thing to be nervous about when he’s been talking to this guy for half a year—when he’s spent literal _days_ worth of hours talking to him, and when he kind of, maybe has a feeling they might be a bit of a _thing_ , sort of. Maybe. He doesn’t know. He just knows that Ian wants to _kiss every inch_ of his body, and he wants to get his dick in him, and that’s gotta be _something_ , right?

And it really doesn’t fuckin’ _help_ his nerves when Ian texts him about their plans during his lunch break.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (12:01 PM):** Do you have Netflix?

 **Mickey (12:01 PM):** No. Why

\-------------------------------------------------------

Ian proceeds to then text him his email and Netflix password.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (12:03 PM):** When you get home, sign in to my account and create a profile for yourself. 😉

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey takes a bite of his calzone and raises an eyebrow.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (12:04 PM):** Why

 **Ian (12:04 PM):** I thought we could watch something tonight? 

**Ian (12:05 PM):** You can add Netflix Party to Chrome, and we can watch the movie together on our screens.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Well.

When Ian referred to this as a date, he apparently wasn’t exaggerating.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (12:05 PM):** Ok, but I’m picking the movie. You have shitty taste

 **Ian (12:05 PM):** Now you’re just making shit up! 

**Ian (12:05 PM):** But fine. 

**Ian (12:05 PM):** Just know that this is a very important decision.

 **Mickey (12:06 PM):** Whatever

 **Ian (12:06 PM):** 😎

 **Ian (12:07 PM):** See you tonight. 🔫

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey smirks and pockets his phone.

So, apparently this is an _actual_ date with like, _actual_ date-like activities. 

Dinner. Movie. 

Sex?

He puts Ian’s jogging playlist on shuffle and, after dumping his trash, including the rest of the calzone he’s too nervous to eat, listens to it as he walks a loop around the mall before he has to check back in at the security office.

\---  
\---

He spends _way_ too long in the shower.

See, showers aren’t usually things he takes right after work. Depending on whether he’s jogged that day, he usually only showers right before bed or first thing in the morning. 

And when he’s in there this time, he scrubs the hell outta his pubes and ass, and he lathers up his dick to an unnecessary degree, and when he’s out, he even fuckin’ combs out his hair and tries to style it so the longer hair on top flips back and isn’t occasionally falling over his forehead, needing to be swept away.

He puts on a green crew-neck and a pair of jeans, and then proceeds to wander aimlessly around his apartment like a fuckin’ idiot until it’s close enough to seven to call Ian.

\---

When the call connects, Ian’s face is the first thing he sees. And though it’s only been a week since he last saw him live, Mickey can’t help the stupid fucking grin that pulls at the corners of his lips.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Ian greets with a smile, leaning over his countertop where he’s got his phone propped up. He’s wearing a navy long-sleeve shirt, and he’s drinking from a bottle of Pom Cherry.

“‘ey.” Mickey raises his eyebrows in greeting and then sets in to look at him for a minute.

And he guesses it’s kinda become a given that they just _do_ shit like this. Just look at each other at the starts and ends of their FaceTime calls and periodically in the middle.

Idly, Mickey wonders what the two of them would look like from an outsider’s point of view—these two men hunched over their kitchen countertops, making eyes at each other through cell phone screens.

Ian’s the first to break, this time. He takes a step back, then another, and Mickey can see the top of his chocolate brown pants. “What’s on the menu?” he asks, unscrewing his Pom and taking a drink.

“Spaghetti.” Mickey steps away from the phone and goes to his refrigerator, taking out Mrs. Callaghan’s Tupperware container and a beer.

“Man,” Ian says when Mickey returns to stand in front of his phone. “I’ve gotta meet your landlady.”

Mickey rolls his eyes and turns to grab a bowl from the cabinet. “She’s nuts.” He pauses, then smirks. “You’d like her. She was tryin’ to get me to dance with her the other day.”

“Did you do it?”

“ _Hell_ no.” Mickey takes a fork from the drawer and scrapes out half the container. He pushes the spaghetti to the sides of the plate, making a hole in the middle, and puts it in the microwave.

“You ever dance?”

Mickey walks back over to the counter and leans down, elbows to the granite. Ian’s got a styrofoam take-out container in front of him, and he’s scraping words or drawings into the lid with his fingernail as he speaks.

“I don’t dance.”

Ian looks up at him, _hmm_ s, and smiles. “Is that a challenge?”

“The fuck you talkin’ about?”

Ian shrugs one shoulder and smiles. “I’ve got a list,” he says cryptically, tapping his temple twice and winking.

“A list.”

“Shit we’re gonna do together.”

Mickey _scoffs_ , but he’s lit up inside like a fuckin’ firecracker—sparks, sparks, sparks, _explosion_. “I ain’t dancin’ with you, bitch.”

Ian levels him with a stare. “We’ll see.” He bounces his eyebrows. “Bitch.”

\---

Ian eats a steak salad from a local restaurant while Mickey slurps through his spaghetti, and they spend a nice twenty minutes eating and talking about random shit.

“I saw you saved my workout mix on Spotify,” Ian says at some point, his mouth a little full. He swallows, takes a sip of his Pom, and smiles.

Mickey wipes his mouth with a paper towel. “Are you _actually_ stalking me?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Got a problem with that?”

“What if I did?”

Ian’s face falls a little, his intensely happy, bright-eyed expression turning down a notch. “Then I’d stop.”

Mickey stares at him, quirks the corner of his mouth, and flips him off. “Don’t stop,” he says, and then starts twirling his fork once more in his bowl.

He looks up after a minute, and Ian’s got his bright look back, and there’s a sweet smile just touching his lips.

\---

They watch _Extraction_ together.

That is, they watch _Extraction_ after Mickey nearly tracks down Ian’s apartment and storms over there so he can strangle the motherfucker with his bare hands for being so annoying.

There’s something fucked up with the Netflix Party extension, or there’s something fucked up with Mickey’s laptop, or there’s something fucked up with something on Ian’s end, but whatever the case, it takes twenty minutes for them to get in together at the same time and actually have the goddamn thing work.

They sort of took to yelling at each other after a while, and by the time the movie’s playing, Mickey’s a bit huffy, if he’s honest. 

“Alright,” Ian says, voice tense. “It works.”

Mickey sighs.

And the movie only plays for thirty seconds before Ian pauses it on his end. “You can stop being a dick now.”

“Fuck you.”

“ _Man_ , you’re grumpy.”

Mickey narrows his eyes at him, and Ian narrows his eyes back, and after several seconds of this, they both break into laughs.

“Yeah, whatever,” Mickey grumbles, smiling.

Ian looks at him fondly and presses play on the movie.

And, y’know, the movie’s _okay_. Chris Hemworth’s hot, at least, and Ian doesn’t complain about the result of Mickey’s “very important” decision.

They hang up about twenty minutes into the movie, Ian saying he doesn’t want to run down his battery, and take to using the Netflix Party chat features off-and-on throughout the next hour and a half.

Mostly, they talk about Chris Hemsworth.

\---

When the movie’s over, it’s nearly ten. Ian FaceTimes him five minutes after they’ve closed out the Netflix Party.

Mickey’s gone and got himself another beer from the fridge, and he’s stretched out on the couch, back against the armrest, drinking.

“I’m having fun with you,” Ian says, and he’s squeezed into his tan recliner, knees pulled up. He’s got a handful of Cheez-Its in his hand, and he’s bringing his palm up to his mouth on occasion and taking one with his teeth, his other hand occupied holding his phone.

Mickey works his mouth a little as if he’s caught between a smile and a smirk before finally settling on biting his bottom lip for a moment, eyes bright. “I _guess_ this is fine,” he says, tone of voice indicating that he’s actually pretty goddamn happy right now. “Almost fuckin’ killed you over that Netflix shit.”

“ _Mickey_ , I swear to God.” Ian laughs for a second, a short little burst, and shovels in the last three Cheez-Its from his palm. He chews, then says with his mouth full, “That was _not_ me.”

“Uh huh. Sure.”

And he feels _flirty_ , sort of, like he just wants to stare at this cracker-chewing motherfucker forever, smirk at him, make teasing fun of him—just stay here all night until the light in his chest grows to unbearable levels, until it’s visible from the outside, an undeniable indication that he’s stupidly _gone_ on him like a dumb kid.

Ian finishes chewing his Cheez-Its and then washes them down with the dregs of his Pom, which he’s been slowly nursing all night.

He suddenly looks at Mickey, studying his face as if he wants to say something but isn’t sure he should—as if there’s a story to be told but he’s worried about how it’ll be received.

Mickey raises his eyebrows at him as he takes a drink of his beer, holding the liquid in his mouth for a second before swallowing.

“You wanna hear a Come Guy story?” he asks, and he sounds so _cautious_ , like he’s worried that this is suddenly _not okay to talk about_.

And it’s always been okay before, always been something Ian shared in their nightly talks—stories of his video clients, of the strange things they ask for, of shit they say that Ian likes to laugh about later.

It always made Mickey feel _close_ to him, like he was someone to whom Ian could tell anything, even the personal shit about his feelings and his body.

It always made Mickey feel just _a little bit different_ —the guy who got to know things, the one client out of all of his clients that got to know him as a real person.

Mickey’s not sure how he feels about it anymore. Now that he’s officially not a client, now that the two of them openly _like each other with romantic intent_ , now that Ian’s said he wants to _kiss every inch_ of his body, and now that they’re talking about maybe doing shit for real, giving each other those touches and kisses Mickey’s been craving deep inside for fucking months, Mickey doesn’t know what purpose these stories serve anymore in his mind. 

They’re a bit of a reminder, aren’t they—a reminder that there are other people getting to see Ian in intimate moments. And it’s _fine_. Mickey gets his job. He _gets it_. And he isn’t jealous of the video clients or of the people Ian texts. 

They’re _stories_ to him now, Mickey guesses. No longer do they give him a little punch of confidence, a little hope that Ian likes him _maybe a little bit more_ than the other dudes. They’re just bits of Ian’s life that they can share. And well, the bottom line is that Mickey wants to hear everything Ian could ever want to say, would ever want to tell him. He wants to know _everything about him_.

To Ian’s question, Mickey shrugs. “What’s up?”

Seemingly satisfied with his reaction, Ian begins.

“He’s started with this thing where he wants me to edge for like, 15 minutes so I’ll come a lot.”

Mickey swallows because well, _that_ ’s an image.

“And last night he had me come on a handheld mirror so I could write his name in it.”

It occurs to him—somehow for the first time—that Ian doesn’t refer to these dudes as the Come Guy, the Crying Guy, the Professor. They have fucking _names_ and shit, and Ian knows them.

“It work?” he asks, scratching at the label on his beer.

Ian huffs a laugh. “Weirdly, yes.” He shrugs. “But he has a short name, so it was pretty easy.”

“Weird motherfucker.”

“Thought you’d think so.”

“Mm.”

“But anyway. Just thought you might wanna know that things on that front are as strange as ever.”

“You been put in that bra yet?”

Ian laughs. “Not _yet_. Fingers crossed, though. Holdin’ out hope.”

“Tits are a little small.”

“ _Ehhh_ , dick’s real big, though, so I think it evens out.”

Mickey flips him off.

And the two of them give each other a pleased smile then—closed-mouth things that show nothing at all but genuine, unabashed affection.

“You got any hot clients right now?” Mickey asks. He takes a drink of his beer. He’s fishing a little, maybe.

Ian purses his lips, bounces his eyebrows once. “Nope. My one hot client cancelled on me, so.”

“Really.”

“Mmhm.” And he looks thoughtful for a moment before continuing with, “But it’s okay, really. We were being _way_ too fuckin’ unprofessional. Coulda got me fired.”

Mickey’s cheeks are warming at Ian’s tone of voice. It’s like, _sexy_ or some shit, and deliberately so, and it reminds him of the way people in movies always talk before sex.

“Fired for what?” he asks, a little breathless.

Ian shrugs with an attempt at nonchalance, though the tilt at the corners of his lips says otherwise. “A whole _slew_ of shit. Like, I dunno.” He puts on an exaggerated “thinking” face and grabs his chin with his free hand. “Connecting with him on social media. Talking to him about other clients. Telling him personal shit I’ve never told anyone in my life. Being into him. In a romantic kinda way.”

Mickey pulls one of his knees up toward his chest, the other still stretched out on the couch. He grabs at it, rubbing the knee bone under the palm of his hand. Idly. Thinking.

Ian eyes him for a second, and apparently realizing Mickey’s not going to respond, finishes with, “Wanting to do shit with him. For real.”

Mickey exhales at that— _hard_ —and brings his hand up to thumb at his nose. Rub over his mouth. “What shit?” he asks, and he sounds breathless and dazed.

“Everything.”

They stare at each other now, eyes wandering over each other’s faces as if memorizing every line, every freckle, every fuckin’ lash, brow, and stubbly beard hair.

Mickey opens his mouth to breathe.

And there’s no natural way of doing this, really. No easy way to transition from couch to bed when you’re on FaceTime and not in each other’s physical presence.

The regular thing to do, he assumes, is to kiss first, and once that gets going, someone suggests a more comfortable spot. That’s how it goes, maybe, with people who like each other. At least that’s how it goes in movies and TV shows. Mickey’s own experiences with sex have consisted of entirely artless, “‘ey, yo! Wanna bang?” type shit, so he’s a bit out of his league, here.

And it’s unfair of him, he realizes, to assume that Ian knows any more about this than him. 

He looks equally at a loss, working his mouth a little like he’s contemplating saying something he knows will be awkward and embarrassing.

They’re still staring at each other, really, and it’s been a long time since they started, and it’s now past the point in an eye-lock where shit starts to get weird.

And it’s at this moment, right in the middle of their stupid stalemate, that Jovi, with an excited _chirp_ leaps into Mickey’s lap.

It scares the _shit_ out of him—his eyes having been so focused on Ian’s face—and he makes a _noise_ like a fuckin’ pussy in a haunted house.

Ian loses it at that, tilting his head back, scrunching up his nose, and just _laughing_ like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen.

“Jumpy much?” he asks through a burst of giggles, and he looks so fond all of a sudden, reaching up a hand and rubbing at his stubbly jaw, eyes softening beyond measure.

“Fuck you!” Mickey exclaims, holding up his middle finger. He pets Jovi, who has settled against his belly, and takes a deep breath, heart beating like a fuckin’ jackhammer.

Ian works his mouth a little more then, his giggles settling into a pleased smile. And then finally, finally, taking pity on Mickey’s fuckin’ soul apparently, says, “Jesus Christ. D’ya wanna just--?”

Mickey gently shoos Jovi away and stands.

\---  
\---

And it is so, so fuckin’ awkward doing this shit.

“Okay,” Ian says once the two of them are in their respective bedrooms. 

Mickey watches him climb onto his bed and lay back against the pillows. He then immediately puts the phone down for a second, Mickey treated to a shot of the water-stained ceiling, and when he picks it up again and holds it over his face, he’s shirtless.

Shrugging, Mickey does the same, stripping off his green crew-neck and throwing it aimlessly across his bedroom.

And then they’re both lying there, heads cradled on their pillows, smiling at each other. 

“We gonna do this, Milkovich?” Ian asks, voice soft, soft.

“This is fuckin’ weird, man,” Mickey replies, running a hand over his face.

Ian makes a _that’s fair_ face, tilting his head and _hm_ ing. “But, I dunno.” He pauses for a second, thinking—that same, _Should I say it?_ face. 

Finally, deciding upon _yes_ , he murmurs, “Weird or not, this kinda stuff’s the sexiest shit I’ve done in a while.”

Mickey raises an eyebrow.

“Not like, _literally_ sexual. _Sexy_. No clients involved.”

And it strikes Mickey then that Ian’s sort of admitting to not having fucked non-clients for a while. His heart kicks.

“You’re not fuckin’ anybody?” he asks, trying to sound casual.

Ian raises an eyebrow. “I dunno, man. I’m really into this hot guy I met online. Sorta hopin’ he might wanna meet up soon.”

Mickey closes his eyes at that. 

And he’s aware that Ian can see him, but well. There are worse things.

When he opens them a few seconds later, Ian’s looking at him, looking _all_ over his face, looking at his lips and his eyes and his nose. “Hey,” he says, and it’s so sweet Mickey’s belly _twists_.

Mickey pulls back one corner of his mouth in a half-smile. Happy.

He breathes deeply, in, in, and out in a rush. And he ponders for a second, staring into Ian’s eyes. And there are a lot of things he could say right now.

What he says is

“I fuckin’ _want you_ , man.”

\---

Ian smiles brighter than he’s ever seen it—shows off his teeth with it, even—and he’s breathing through his mouth, clearly affected.

And Mickey wants to tell him, “I want you in literally every single way you can ever want a person, _goddammit_ ,” but instead, he blushes, and he blinks at him, and he thinks about what it must feel like to touch him.

“Since you never answered my question about whether kissing’s something you’ve done,” Ian murmurs, eyes closing a little with what looks like the best kind of happy-pleasure. “I'm just gonna say that I _really_ like to kiss.”

Ian wiggles around a little, and Mickey can hear the sound of him trying to get his pants off with one hand.

Breathing hard, _hard_ , Mickey does the same.

“ _I_ haven’t done it _a lot_ ,” Ian’s saying, still wiggling, still working on his pants. “With a few guys here and there. With some clients.” He snickers before a bit of a grunt from effort as he apparently gets his pants off. 

Mickey gets his jeans down to his knees and then uses his feet to pull them the rest of the way down his legs before kicking them off.

“Yeah, I haven’t.” He breathes. “At all, really.”

Maybe a lip-brush here and there with Amy and Angie—an uncomfortable, split-second touch before he turned his head, gently shoved them away.

Mickey’s looking off to the side, now, embarrassed more about this, honestly, than most things he’s ever thought to be embarrassed about. 

“Why’re we talkin’ about this?” he asks, rubbing a hand over his belly. He moves his eyes back to the phone screen.

And Ian looks at him, then, his eyes so fuckin’ soft, so fuckin’ sweet that it gives Mickey a little surge, like electricity shooting through his middle.

“‘cause I like to kiss during sex.”

Mickey feels a pulse in his cock. He slides the hand currently rubbing at his stomach down into his boxers. Pets at himself.

“How d’ya wanna do it?” Ian asks, wiggling again—taking off his underwear, maybe.

“How do I wanna kiss you?”

Ian _giggles_ at that—so much that he has to bring his right hand up to help him hold onto the phone because he’s about to drop it. “ _No_ ,” he says, and he’s red-faced and happy as fuck, and Mickey just has the strongest compulsion to lick his throat.

“Well. I’d love to know that, too.” Ian has a laugh-burst once more before settling with, “But I meant how do you wanna do _this_? Like, do you wanna see my dick or my face, or.”

 _Goddammit_ , Gallagher.

Mickey feels his skin flame up in embarrassment at his misinterpretation. 

He rolls his eyes, trying to play it off, but Ian just winks at him and sits up on his bed.

“I’m gonna get the tripod,” he says, and Mickey’s left looking at the ceiling again as Ian scrambles around to get set up.

And Mickey hadn’t really given a thought as to how _he_ was gonna set this shit up. He rolls off the bed and looks around for something to use.

After a minute, he ends up dragging his nightstand further down the side of his bed and propping his phone up, landscape-style, on his digital alarm clock. This way, Ian’ll be able to see him from the thighs up.

While he’s standing, he strips off his boxers and waits for Ian to be finished setting up his phone on the tripod.

And well, this is fucking inconvenient, isn’t it? It’s a pain in the ass, really.

“This is a pain in the ass,” he says with a little huff, climbing back onto his bed and sitting with his legs criss-crossed, hands in the middle, covertly covering his dick.

Ian’s finally got his phone set up, and Mickey watches as he stretches back out on the bed. 

His heart pounds when he sees him in all his freckled glory. He’s just a bit hard already, his cock plump and lifting just the slightest amount, and his skin’s flushed and a little splotchy from his neck to his pelvis.

Ian’s not responding to his comment, and after a few seconds, he realizes it’s because he’s staring at _him_ , and well. Mickey guesses this is the first time he’s ever seen his completely naked body live.

He takes a deep breath and falls backward onto his pillows, stretching out in a position mirroring Ian’s.

“Would it be weird if I screencasted you to my TV?” Ian asks suddenly, as if broken from a trance.

Mickey snorts. “Fuck you, _yes_. That would be weird, man.”

Ian grins, and then, well, _then_ they’re just two naked men lying in their own beds, staring at each other. Two men with smiles on their faces.

“I can’t wait to kiss you,” Ian murmurs, and Mickey watches as he rubs a bit at that ginger fuzz beneath his navel and then slides his fingers down to take hold of his dick.

Mickey’s about losing it already, and he takes hold of himself, too, if only to keep the rapid filling of his cock from being _embarrassingly_ obvious.

And this, _this_ is a bit of a problem because Mickey keeps looking between Ian’s face and his lower belly, right where his fist is, curled around his dick and slowly stroking, and there’s just _something about it_ that gives him this one-two punch of a twisting belly and tightening balls, this weird, romance-sex response combination that causes him to have to breathe with his mouth open.

Ian stops for a second to get lube, and as he slicks up his cock—the act making filthy, wet sounds that cause Mickey to curl his toes—he keeps looking at Mickey and licking his bottom lip, breathing labored.

“Stop,” Mickey murmurs, turning his head in the other direction and laughing a little, a quiet, breathy huff. He can’t fuckin’ believe this shit. 

He grasps at the base of his dick for a second, trying to bring himself down again. And _goddammit_ , it’s literally only been like, two fuckin’ minutes.

“Are you already gonna come?” Ian asks, and he sounds so fuckin’ _cute_ that Mickey has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep his arousal from toppling over into The Point of No Return territory.

“No-shut-up,” he grumbles, all one, breathy word, and then they’re _both_ laughing. 

Mickey turns his head back to look at Ian as they do, and Ian’s panting out his laughs, his fist still stroking his cock at a steadily quickening pace. 

“Payback,” he says between pants, getting his left hand on his belly and scratching at the gingery, hairy bits there.

“For what, bitch?”

“For making me come first.”

Mickey grins, and he’s starting to feel sweat break out across his skin, this warm, damp sheen developing everywhere.

He starts up his strokes once more and watches Ian’s face—that beautiful fucking face with the beautiful fucking freckles.

“I like your freckles,” he says, and he thinks he sounds fuckin’ stupid, but well, he’s got his hand on his cock, and it’s starting to leak, and the filter’s starting to disintegrate at a rapid pace.

“I like _your_ freckles,” Ian replies after taking a second to smile, as if what Mickey said made him feel good to hear. “Love that one on your belly.”

Mickey bites his lip, and he has to stop his strokes again for a second.

Idly, he looks down at his dick and sees he’s got a string of clear fluid beginning to drip off the head. He runs his fingers through it, uses it to slick up the rest of him.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hears Ian whisper. “You can’t do that, man.”

And then he laughs, and they’re both laughing. Mickey grabs his dick under the head and holds on for a second, and he just feels so, so fucking good in every way a person can feel good.

He turns his head to look at Ian and sees he’s grasping the base of his own, holding himself back. And the head of his cock’s messy—shiny with pre-come—and there are a couple smears on the skin beneath his navel.

And _fuck_ , if watching Ian trying to keep himself from coming over Mickey’s pre-come isn’t the hottest fuckin’ thing Mickey’s ever seen. 

Mickey looks at him, and he starts up his strokes again, and as he watches Ian watch him, watches the muscles flex in his arm as he slides his fist up and down his cock, watches a bit of pre-come slide out in a little rush like he’s just had a spike of arousal, Mickey thinks that he’s hot as fuck, and he thinks that he’s beautiful.

But more than anything, he thinks that he’s in love with him.

“You’re fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispers, and he’s glad _that_ comes out instead of the other thing, even though he still has to squeeze his eyes shut when he says it, cheeks flaming up impossibly red, that match lighting again, body catching fire.

But when he opens his eyes, when he looks into Ian’s face, he can tell that even though he didn’t say it, it bled out his pores, anyway, is in his breaths and his sweat and his fuckin’ pre-come. 

Ian looks blissed out, and he looks happy, and for a second he looks like he’s going to come, his eyes going a bit crossed, the lids beginning to fall.

He hisses through his teeth, and the two of them laugh again as he grabs at the base of his dick. He’s got another rush of fluid goin’, and he’s curling a bit into himself like he did when he came during their first FaceTime jerk-off session.

Mickey blows out a breath and moves his fist a little faster. “You know you can,” he starts, taking a second to pause, to breathe. “You can come if you want, man.” He laughs, belly jumping, and for some reason that makes him feel even better, gives him a little rush. “I won’t bust your balls too bad.”

“Fuck you, Mickey,” Ian replies, and he sounds pained.

“No, really. Be my guest.”

“ _Shut-the-fuck-up_.”

And it occurs to Mickey in this moment that he’s straight up _naked_ in front of another man, and his cock’s hard and leaking, and he’s jerking off and smiling and laughing and _talking_ through it. And he hasn’t even thought about all of his fucking insecurities, and his worries, and how he’s gonna be, seem, and look under the gaze of another eye.

He scrabbles at his belly a bit, fingers slipping through a bit of pre-come that’s made its way to his skin, and he looks at Ian look at _him_ , and _goddammit_ , Gallagher, he’d wanted to make him come first, he’d wanted to tease him, wanted to gloat, but he feels it building in him, this white-hot tingling pressure inside that’s growing, growing, and spreading.

“ _Jesus Christ_ , Ian,” he says, and he knows his voice twists into something higher-pitched with pleasure.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Ian whispers, and Mickey can hear him groan. “Are you coming? Oh God. Fuck, _fuck_ , you’re coming.”

And just as it builds and builds and builds to its peak, the razor-sharp edge of it, this intense pleasure that he can hardly, hardly fuckin’ _stand_ , Mickey hears, “ _Fuck_ , me too. _I’m-coming-too-fuck_ ,” all one hot, fevered word.

He strokes himself through it, feeling his cock _pulse_ , pulse, feeling unbearably good, feeling the wetness dripping onto his fist and spurting onto his stomach. And through it all he somehow gets an eye open enough to see Ian falling apart, sees him pulling his legs up a little as he groans and comes all over his lower belly in several thick, milky stripes.

\---

Mickey looks down after a bit, sees how fucking _messy_ he is, and all he can do is huff a tired laugh as he relaxes completely, bones turning to Jell-o.

He’s got his head turned to the side on his pillow so he can watch Ian come down, as well—can watch him pant and sweat, can watch those splotches continue to build until he’s one giant, sweaty, pink thing stretched out on his bed.

And they watch each other for the longest time, just breathing and breathing and watching and _smiling_.

“Fuck,” Ian whispers, getting a hand down to idly swipe at his wet, softening cock. 

Mickey _hm_ s because that’s really all he _can_ do right now.

There’s nearly four entire minutes of silence, the two of them simply learning how to breathe again, running their hands over their warm, sticky skin, feeling the rush of endorphins, that goddamn oxytocin.

“That was good,” Mickey says suddenly, and it surprises him a little to hear those words leaving his lips.

Ian swallows and nods. “So good.” He snickers for a second, pauses, works his mouth in that way he’s been doing all night. “I saw you come,” he finally says, and it makes Mickey groan with embarrassment.

He throws an arm over his face, and that makes Ian laugh again.

“I saw you come,” he repeats obnoxiously, knowing _exactly_ what he’s doing. “And it was the hottest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen. In case you were wondering.” 

“Shut up.”

“Mm _hm_. Blushing motherfucker.”

“Fuck you.” Mickey smiles. Rubs at it with his forearm, then his hand.

“ _Reeeally_ wantin’ to kiss you right now.”

And there are a lot of things he could say to that. There’s also a lot of _nothing_ he could say to that, if he wanted to—if he wanted to do what he’s done for months. 

He doesn’t want to say nothing.

So he moves his hand from his face, twists a bit so as to better see Ian, and whispers, so soft, like a secret, “Really wantin’ you to kiss me.”

\---

It’s over at a little after ten-thirty, but they lie in bed together(-apart) and talk, stare, breathe until eleven-fifteen.

Mickey’s too tired to grumble when Ian, after getting up for a washcloth and wiping himself down, takes the phone off the tripod and starts texting Mickey songs he’s been listening to lately, which is really just a whole lot of Doja Cat.

And when it’s time for them to go, Ian complaining that his phone’s dying and Mickey telling him it’s because of all the shit he’s sending him, they just take a minute to stare at each other again. So sweet. So soft.

“You’re sleepy,” Ian observes, face stretching into that cute-ass fuckin’ closed-mouth smile of his.

“Wore me out, bitch.”

“You ain’t seen nothin’, Mickey Milkovich.”

And when they finally say goodnight, after several minutes of trying to hang up, really, their whispers repeatedly circling to other things until Mickey finally has to say, “Okay. I’m hanging up now,” Mickey switches off the light and lies there in the dark, running his hand over himself.

He’s getting a little gross and crusty—as he didn’t actually wipe himself down like Ian did—but he just feels so fuckin’ good. So fuckin’ satisfied with what they did.

And when Ian texts him a few minutes later, he has to squeeze his eyes closed to shut out the light bursting from his chest.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (11:29 PM):** I can’t wait to hold you.

\-------------------------------------------------------  
\---  
\---

After they do it once, it becomes a bit of an addiction.

Though they usually only FaceTime on occasion, they do it three times between that Friday night and the following Saturday. 

On Sunday, Ian’s off work again, and he FaceTimes Mickey for their second horny Sunday jerk-off, Mickey managing to _not_ knock over the phone as he comes this time.

On Tuesday, they try to do it while Ian’s in the bath, but the camera lens keeps fogging up from its proximity to the hot water. Ian ends up getting out, propping his phone up on a shelf above the sink, and jerking off standing, dripping water all over his bathroom.

Finally, on Thursday night, they try something a little different, connecting over Skype so they can use their laptops. And the two of them just sit there on their respective couches, computers in their laps, jerking off to the image of each other jerking off.

When Mickey comes, due to the angle he’s stroking his dick, he gets a streak of jizz on his face when he bows his head as he orgasms.

Ian loses his shit laughing and then applauds him. And when he comes, too, a few minutes later, he grins deviously as he rubs it on his belly and tries to write Mickey’s name in it.

It doesn’t work—doesn’t work at all, really—and Mickey just laughs and laughs at him and thinks about all the things he wants to do with him.

\---

It’s a good fuckin’ week, and as Mickey lies in bed on Saturday morning, he thinks about how _relaxed_ he feels.

Mickey Milkovich has never been relaxed in his entire life. Not since he was old enough to know shit, and definitely not since his mom died, and not even after his son of a bitch of a father got shanked in prison. Because then he was _scraping_ , and he was _trying_ , and he was hating himself a little bit every day even as he grew stronger and prouder of the shit he’d somehow been able to do. And he was fucking _lonely_. Like, silent apartment, neighbors ain’t bangin’, dishwasher’s off, nobody’s texting his phone, nobody’s talking to him, there’s nobody to see, nobody, fuckin’ nobody. Lonely.

And now he’s spent the week having sexual encounters with a guy who _wants to hold him_ , and he’s thinking that maybe he’s got somebody, somehow. 

\---

It’s nearly ten when he’s done thinking.

He grabs his phone to check anything he might’ve missed overnight and sees that he has _several_ push notifications from Instagram.

He has three follow requests from three Gallaghers: Debbie, Carl, and Liam. There’s also a notification that Ian’s made a post.

Mickey opens up the app.

Apparently, something went down at the Gallagher residence the night before, as Ian’s posted a set of eight photos of a bunch of people drinking and dancing, all while wearing obnoxious party hats with pom-poms on the end.

There’s one in particular that Mickey fuckin’ loves. Ian’s holding Freddie on his hip, and he’s got a blue and white polka-dot party hat sideways on his head, sticking out like a right horn. He looks like he’s dancing, maybe, his body tilted a bit to the side and his left leg bent at the knee, and he has the most _gleeful_ expression on his face. Freddie’s looking at him with wide, blue eyes, like he’s wondering what the hell his uncle’s on.

Mickey likes the photo set and smiles.

He clicks over to his follow requests and takes a screenshot before texting it to Ian.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (10:08 AM):** ???

 **Ian (10:10 AM):** Sorry. I might’ve talked about you a little.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey’s heart beats hard when he thinks of it. Talked about him _how_? As what? In what away? _About_ what?

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (10:11 AM):** Also, I’m hungover. 

**Ian (10:11 AM):** Had two whole beers last night and got wasted as fuck. So there’s that.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey wants to tell him to _not fuckin’ drink_ , numbnuts, ‘cause he’s really not supposed to be doing that shit. But he figures Ian fucking knows that, and he’s an adult, and he’d asked Mickey to trust him all those months ago.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (10:12 AM):** Go back to sleep

 **Ian (10:12 AM):** Aye, aye. 

\-------------------------------------------------------

Smirking, Mickey accepts the Gallaghers’ follow requests, sets his phone back on his nightstand, and goes to take a shower.

He grabs his black backpack before he leaves the house for the day just after lunch, and then makes the journey to Save A Lot to pick up a few non-perishable odds and ends. 

He’s still got that good feeling going, and when he leaves the store, some cat food, peanut butter, a couple single rolls of toilet paper, and a blue Gatorade in his bag, he puts in his earbuds and goes on a walk.

\---

He’s leaned back against a brick building forty minutes later, smoking, when Ian calls him.

“‘ey,” he greets before taking a hard drag. “You rejoined the land of the living?”

Ian grumbles a little. “Jury’s still out. Ask me again tonight.”

And it makes something warm curl in Mickey’s belly, this notion that they’re _going_ to talk to each other tonight. It’s a given. It’s a constant.

“‘sup?” Mickey asks. He takes off his backpack, pulls it around to his front, and gets out his Gatorade.

“You busy?” There’s a staticky sigh. “Sorry. I’m bored as fuck. Thought I’d call and tell you about the party last night.”

It’s weird, Mickey realizes. This is the first time he’s ever spoken on the phone with Ian when he _wasn’t_ at home. He’s standing in an alley, smoking a cigarette and drinking a Gatorade—out in the real fuckin’ world—and having a real conversation with a real person about real things.

He sniffs, thumbs at his nose, and takes a drag off his cigarette.

Ian goes on to tell him about the party. It was Freddie’s first birthday, and the Gallaghers had let loose for hours. He tells Mickey about their family dynamics, and about the most recent drama, and Mickey smiles as he talks because well, as much as he does it a fuckin’ _lot_ , he likes to hear him talk about things he loves.

At this point, there’s the sound of a car alarm nearby. Ian stops mid-sentence.

“Where are you right now?”

There’s something about the way he says it that makes Mickey’s stomach flip, this twinge getting him in the guts.

Because that’s just the thing, isn’t it? He’s out in the _real fuckin’ world_ —out in public, not in his private apartment. He’s in a location in which _anybody_ could feasibly walk by, in which anybody would have the _right_ to walk by, and which Ian could probably pretty easily find if Mickey gave him the exact location.

The sensation isn’t _bad_ , necessarily, but it makes him pause, and it makes his breath come a little quick, and it makes his heart beat just the littlest bit harder.

Mickey suddenly realizes that it’s been too many seconds for him to have _not_ answered Ian’s question. 

And Ian picks up on it, apparently, because he’s suddenly shifting back to his party story. 

“Anyway,” he says, and Mickey can hear him blow out a breath. “You should come to the next Gallagher shindig. We turn it up on the Fourth of July, if you’re interested. All the booze, weed, and illegal fireworks you can handle.”

It’s a month away, still. Mickey takes a drag off his cigarette. He _hm_ s. “I dunno. Maybe.” Bites his lip for a second. “Yeah.”

There’s silence, and Mickey just _knows_ that Ian’s smiling. He crushes out his cigarette on the side of the building and smiles, himself, knowing that.

“So what’d you tell your family about me?” he asks, putting on a deliberately grumbly tone.

Ian laughs a little—a breathy thing—and _hm_ s a bit, like he’s not sure he wants to say.

“I dunno,” he murmurs, voice revealing a lack of confidence—maybe embarrassment, even. “I might’ve told them we’ve been.” A pause. “Hanging out. Like, talking and shit.”

When Mickey’s silent for twenty full seconds, Ian continues.

“Sorry. I don’t know if that’s okay or whatever.” Mickey hears a whispered _fuck_ , like Ian’s pulled the phone away from his ear to swear at himself. 

Mickey has no fuckin’ clue what to say in this moment. _Hanging out_. _Talking_. Is this like a _boyfriend_ thing? Is that what he means by this shit? _Is_ that what this is?

Ian’s not fucking other people, and they’re _into each other with romantic intent_ , and they’re apparently one day going to have sex with kissing and holding afterwards, and well.

That’s what it sounds like, doesn’t it?

Mickey sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and bites down. _Hard_.

He sniffs, and y’know, fine. _Fine_.

“Whatever,” he says, trying to come across as nonchalant.

And he knows just as well as he knows anything that Ian’s smiling at that, too.

\---  
\---

Though one of his reasons for going out this Saturday was to pick up a few essentials, he’d also agreed to meet Mandy for coffee at two.

They do this sometimes—meet for coffee or for lunch or for a late breakfast. They’re the only two children of Terry and Laura Milkovich still in town, apparently, and though they were never super close, they still have the bond of little sisters and slightly older brothers. They have the bond of the two youngest kids growing up in a family surrounded by abject poverty and violence with nothing to hold on to sometimes but each other.

Their conversations are always pretty straight-forward— _What’ve you been doing? Is your latest boyfriend a good dude or do I need to kick his teeth in? How’s work? Where the fuck are Iggy and Colin now?_

The conversations are easy, and it’s fine, it’s perfectly well and good to have coffee and scones while listening to Mandy talk.

Today’s no different to start, really. 

Mandy looks good, her hair blonde, her clothes light and office casual. She gives him a hug when he walks up to the table she’s gotten them, and as he holds her, smells her gentle, floral perfume and the sweet scent of her shampoo, he thinks about how different the two of them must look from how they were ten, nine, eight years ago, those scrappy, lost kids dressed all in black.

Mickey’s wearing a deep purple crew-neck and gray shorts with Vans, and he smells like soap. 

The two of them chat about their lives for a bit. Mandy tells Mickey that she got promoted at her office job and that her boyfriend, Eric, is an asshole but the best asshole she’s ever dated. Mickey tells her about shit at work and about Jovi and about how he’s fixing up his apartment. 

And then Mandy, interrupting his description of his vision for his kitchen cabinets as if she’s bursting at the seams, says, “Tell me about Ian, you asshole.”

Mickey’s heart jumps into his throat for a second. He takes a sip of his coffee.

“What?”

Mandy reaches across the table and smacks him on the arm. “Are you fuckin’ kidding me, Mick?”

“How do you fuckin’ know about this shit?”

Mandy levels him with a gaze. “What shit?” She smirks.

He blows out a breath, tired already, and rolls his eyes because really, you can’t pull anything over on her.

“I dunno.” He shrugs. “We’re like, talking, I guess.”

Mandy grins at him, and it’s fucking _sly_ is what it is.

“What?” Mickey asks, leaning back in his chair.

She shrugs. “A little birdy may’ve told me a few things.”

“A fuckin’ what?”

“I _may_ have had lunch with Ian last week.”

The fuck?

“And he _may_ have told me all about you guys.”

Mickey _really_ doesn’t know what to say here. 

_Goddammit_ , Gallagher. 

“What’d he say?” he asks—because as much as it sorta pisses him off to think that Ian met with his fuckin’ sister and didn’t even tell him about it, he’s also curious as fuck about what he said about him.

Mandy smiles, and Mickey can tell that she’s read him loud and clear. 

Her face, which was once teasing, this hard, poking edge to it, is now soft and kind. “He didn’t tell me a lot, Mick. Don’t worry. Just that you met online and you’ve been talking.” 

Mickey sniffs. Thumbs at his nose. Takes a drink of his coffee.

“He’s fucking crazy about you.”

And just hearing it, hearing it from a third party—from someone who doesn’t have the blinders on, or the rose colored glasses, or the ever-burning hope for something _more_ —gives him a twist in his belly like nothing he’s ever felt before.

Mickey bites at his lip, but he knows his cheeks are turning up, anyway, against his will.

Mandy tilts her head at him, and she looks like the little sister he used to sit with on the couch when they were young kids, again. Who used to hug him and try to get him to play dolls with her. Who held his warm, sweaty hand in her warm, sweaty hand with their dad was drunk and beating the shit out of their mother in the living room.

“Don’t be mad at him for telling me,” she says, voice gentle. “And don’t tell him I told you that we had lunch. He likes you a lot, and he was curious. And I think he was feeling weird about hanging out with me without telling you about it.”

Mickey studies his coffee mug—follows a hairline crack from the rim to the handle.

He feels a hand on his.

“He likes you, Mickey. A lot. Like, _real_ shit.”

Mickey’s stomach twists.

“And he wants to meet you.” She smiles at him, sweetly.

But then, as if she’s suddenly been possessed, the sweetness disappears, only to be replaced by a hard, teasing edge. She digs her nails into his hand.

“ _Ow_ , bitch!” he yells, jerking his hand away.

“Meet him, you dumbass! He’s a hot EMT, and he’s _nice_ in a way guys from around here _aren’t_ fuckin’ nice.” She leans forward and punches his arm again— _hard_. “Asshole.”

Mickey flips her off and then rubs at his arm, trying to massage away the fuckin’ bruise she no-doubt pummelled into it.

\---

And he’s not mad at Ian—not even a bit, really. 

Sure, it makes him feel weird as fuck that he apparently had an extensive conversation about him with his sister, and he’s maybe a little frustrated that Mandy _met up with him_ in person.

But it’s jealousy, really, this weird twist in his guts. Jealousy directed at Mandy, maybe. Jealousy that someone he knows got to be around Ian Gallagher _for real_. 

Mandy probably hugged him, and she sat across a table from him for an hour. And she got to watch him eat, and their shoes probably accidentally touched under the table once or twice.

And the thing is, Mickey _knows_ all he has to do in order to meet up with Ian is say the word. Ian clearly wants to.

For that matter, _Mickey_ wants to. He wants to see his face, and he wants to kiss him and touch him all over, and he wants to lay in bed with him for hours and just talk to him, make him feel good, listen to him breathe.

And he _hates_ that he gets a gut-twist when he thinks about it actually happening. 

If there’s one thing he knows to be true, it’s that good shit is always fuckin’ taken from him. Everything’s _always_ too good to be true in the long run.

Maybe Ian likes him over the phone, and maybe he likes him over FaceTime, but is he going to like him in person?

\---

Mickey breathes into Mandy’s shoulder when she hugs him at the end of their coffee date. He does love her, really, and he thinks he would maybe like to talk to her sometimes.

“Dude, go get your man,” she says to him with a smile as they go to part ways. “Trust me.”

He fumbles in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes and waves her off.

\---

When he gets back home, Mrs. C. has left a Tupperware container of banana pudding on the mat in front of his door.

He grabs it, takes it inside, and puts it in his fridge.

And when he closes the fridge, he takes off his backpack, sets it on the counter, and then takes a second to stand in the middle of his kitchen.

He surveys his apartment and the progress made so far.

The walls and base moulding are painted. He has his framed posters up in his living room and Amazon boxes scattered about—shelves that he’ll need to mount. 

There’s a gallon of paint on the floor by his feet that he’ll use to paint his cabinets tomorrow, and if he were to walk around the corner into his bathroom, he would see the new decor he and Ian had picked out together: the white shower curtain with the two horizontal black stripes, the matching hand towels, black bath mat, and white trash can.

And as he surveys, he thinks about how quiet it is in here, still. And he thinks about how much he wants to show his progress to Ian, and he thinks about how he wants to introduce him to Mrs. Callaghan and later make love to him on his new sheets.

And really, _really_ , he thinks about how much he wants him with him. 

How he wants him here. 

How he wants him everywhere he can ever go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fun facts for Chapter 11:  
> -On their date, Mickey’s wearing the [green shirt from the cheek-kiss scene in 10x07.](https://66.media.tumblr.com/211e7146539b21fa69eb6e7664c3e3ba/81547ff7be6c6647-7e/s500x750/c11b0854e16edbdf1948925b3d52c43f8a6dc0fb.gifv) Ian’s wearing [this outfit](https://youtu.be/7L7OsnUe-A4), also from 10x07. 
> 
> -When I talk about Mickey’s hair falling over his forehead, I mean [this](https://66.media.tumblr.com/c2e7b3b61c7645a28c75f0db084db5e6/tumblr_inline_oi6s1qJ3nJ1tv1ztc_540.gifv) bit of hair. Also, for a better highlight, there’s [this cute shit](https://youtu.be/8fcFQxWvMpM).
> 
> -I promise that all questions that haven’t been answered _will_ be answered by the end of this. (i.e. I haven’t forgotten about Ian’s fortune. 😉)
> 
> -I’m in the process of making these characters’ workout playlists and will post them either here or on Tumblr when I’m finished.
> 
> Love you all! Thank you so, so much for the support. You’re amazing.
> 
> Unfortunately, I will not be updating on Wednesday. The next update will be **Saturday**. I’ve gotta get some things done this week that I’ve been neglecting due to both laziness and my desire to do things that are more fun.
> 
> So, stay tuned for next Saturday. 😉💕
> 
> Gray // [gallavichy](http://gallavichy.tumblr.com) // @GrayolaSays


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian and Mickey talk about the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Mickey is in love.
> 
> Thanks for your patience! With this chapter, the fic is breaking 100,000 words. It’s officially the longest thing I’ve ever written in my life, and there’s still quite a bit to go. I just want to thank you all again for being so, so amazing. I hope you enjoy the ride!

They’re close.

Mickey realizes this as he’s lying in bed Monday night, turning his phone over and over in his hands. The device is warm, having been used for the better part of two hours straight--the texting, turned phone call, turned FaceTime sex, the two of them jerking off with only the dim lights of their nightstand lamps illuminating their faces.

And now it’s nearly midnight, and they’re _still_ talking, sending each other sleepy texts that have that soft undercurrent that makes Mickey’s stomach twist.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (11:49 PM):** When we meet, I’m gonna spend like an hour looking at you, so get ready.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey reads the message over and over again. And though he just got off FaceTime with him ten minutes ago, and though he’d watched his face as he came and then spent fifteen minutes as they relaxed, panting and staring and whispering to him, there’s something about the written text that settles in his belly like a warm stone.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (11:49 PM):** Looking huh

\-------------------------------------------------------

He’s getting a little better with his talking, he thinks, running a hand through his sweaty hair. He isn’t _overtly_ affectionate like Ian can sometimes be, but he’s relaxing into it more, allowing the flirtation to flow more freely, allowing himself to soak up the good things rather than always tossing them back with a middle finger emoji and a sarcastic quip.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (11:50 PM):** Yes, looking. 

**Ian (11:50 PM):** The other things I’m gonna do will take much longer than an hour.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey snorts even as he blushes like a motherfucker. At this point, he truly can’t imagine their first time taking longer than three minutes, and that’s being both generous and optimistic.

Though Ian has managed to come second during every FaceTime session with the exception of their very first, he’s never fallen more than thirty seconds behind Mickey. More often than not, in fact, Mickey’s own orgasm tends to trigger Ian’s, turning what initially begins for the two of them as a long, indulgent masturbation session into a five-minute race to the top.

But tonight, he looks at Ian’s text, and he knows, he _knows_ that Ian’s wanting Mickey to respond in a very specific way. He takes a deep breath, sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, and humors him.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (11:51 PM):** What kinda things

\-------------------------------------------------------

He’s a little proud of himself for it.

Ian is, too, apparently, by the annoying-ass way he responds.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (11:52 PM):** 👏👏

 **Ian (11:52 PM):** Oh shit! Is Mickey indulging me?

 **Mickey (11:52 PM):** 🖕 Ain’t indulging shit. Just wondering what we could possibly do that you think will take multiple hours

 **Ian (11:53 PM):** Mickey, Mickey, Mickey.

 **Ian (11:53 PM):** It’s not HOW LONG one individual thing will take. It’s how many times we’re gonna do it.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey presses his tongue against the corner of his mouth.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (11:54 PM):** I still don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin about

 **Ian (11:54 PM):** Gonna look at you for a while. Then I’m gonna kiss every inch of your body.

\-------------------------------------------------------

He’s not going to make himself come again tonight, but he gets his hand on himself, anyway, just rubbing at his skin, feeling the dampness of his pubes where he washed up a bit after their FaceTime session.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (11:55 PM):** There’ll probably be some licking, if you’re game.

 **Ian (11:55 PM):** Then I’m gonna make you come as many times as I can in as many ways as I can over the next 24-48 hours.

 **Ian (11:56 PM):** Gonna kiss your mouth and neck a whole lot.

\-------------------------------------------------------

They’re doing this, huh?

They’re really gonna have sex.

But more than that, Mickey thinks, sliding his hand up to rub at his stomach, feeling it rise and fall as he breathes, they’re gonna _be together_.

They’ll be in each other’s physical presence. Mickey’ll get to stand near him, take note of their differences in height, catch the scent of his cologne if he wears it and his soap if not. See the freckles on his knuckles, on his cheeks, on his fuckin’ _eyelids_.

The thought alone sends a fever-burn through him, this white-hot heat surging down his chest, into his belly, his thighs. He flexes his toes.

And he _wants_ this shit. He’s fucking twenty-six years old, and he’s never had another guy’s lips on him, hand on him, and he’s never been in a relationship or been on a date or even really _liked_ anyone in any way except as a stupid, childish crush. And all he can think right now as he looks at Ian’s last text is that he wants him to be his fucking _boyfriend_.

It makes him _embarrassed_ to think that, and he hates himself for it because he’s fairly certain that’s a pretty normal desire to have--to want a boyfriend. 

Pretty fucking human, pretty fucking innocuous. 

He thinks it’s pretty fucking normal and yet that’s almost the scariest thing about it, really, the idea that Mickey Milkovich, son of Terry Milkovich, dirty-faced, FUCK U-UP knuckled, in-and-out of juvie, drug-running, high school dropout, kick your ass as soon as speak to you, lowlife piece of Southside trash could maybe, someday--someday soon-- _have_ things.

Could have a decent job and a decorated apartment and a gentle, friendly cat.

Could have routines and hobbies and interests that make him happy.

And really, _really_ could have somebody to kiss and to touch. To laugh with, play with, to make love with for hours-- _it’s not how long, it’s how many times_. To _talk to_ about shit, whether it’s about stupid drama from work or how he fucking _feels_ , even when it’s hard to articulate.

He thinks it’s pretty fucking normal and pretty fucking scary and pretty fucking incredible, unbelievable, _unfathomable_ even six months ago that Mickey Milkovich, son of Terry Milkovich, dirty-faced, FUCK U-UP knuckled, in-and-out of juvie, drug-running, high school dropout, kick your ass as soon as speak to you, lowlife piece of Southside trash could have the softer things in life.

Could have someone who wants to give them to him.

Could want them.

Could maybe deserve them.

\---

“Did I break you?” Ian texts when Mickey’s been silent for far longer than normal.

Nope. Not even a little bit.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (12:02 AM):** Just thinking

 **Ian (12:02 AM):** About us?

 **Mickey (12:02 AM):** Yeah

 **Ian (12:03 AM):** About us having sex?

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey blows out a breath.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (12:04 AM):** You have no filter, man

 **Ian (12:04 AM):** Do I need one?

 **Mickey (12:04 AM):** Sometimes 🖕

 **Ian (12:05 AM):** You just wait ‘til we’re in person, Milkovich. 

\-------------------------------------------------------

This is how they’ve been talking since the previous Friday. There are references to _when we’re in person_ and _when I meet you_. But aside from having the ultimate date of the Fourth of July as an agreed-upon-- _fuck_ \--day in which they’ll be together, no one has made the move to suggest a first meeting. That is, assuming Ian isn’t intending to meet Mickey for the first time at the Gallagher house.

And he _knows_ Ian, and he knows Ian’s loud and present and enthusiastic. But he also knows he’s kind and considerate.

He’s waiting on Mickey to make that move, and well. That’s the hard part, isn’t it? 

Making moves.

Especially making moves when the thing with them has become less and less about sex the more and more they communicate. What started out for Mickey as an epic journey to get a dick in his ass has since turned into him wanting both the dick and the man attached to it in every way it’s possible to want someone.

So when that day comes, and it’s really a how-long-can-he-stand-it game right now, Mickey knows that the move he’s going to make isn’t going to be a request for a fevered hookup. It’s going to be the first step in pursuit of a fevered _love_ that keeps him up, sometimes, thinking of it.

\---

Ian and Mickey banter for a few minutes longer before saying goodnight.

And it takes Mickey a bit to fall asleep, his mind restlessly turning over and over again their entire night together.

Their quick, inexplicit jerk-off, the two of them mostly breathing hard at each other for four minutes as they brought themselves to orgasm below the frame of the phone camera, the only indication of this being the movement of their right arms. The soft, flirtatious texting afterward. Ian telling Mickey what he was going to do to him once they meet.

He does fall asleep eventually, however, and the last thing on his mind before sleep overtakes him is the thought that he’s mere steps away from the finish line.

\---  
\---

The thing about putting work into his apartment is that the more he does, the more he wants to do.

He spends a good part of Sunday painting his kitchen cabinets, covering up the slightly grease-stained cherry oak with Molten Black. Then Monday after work, he replaces the aging brass knobs with chrome bar pulls.

On Tuesday, he and Ian sit on Skype together, sending kitchen decor links back and forth through the chat window. Since there’s so much gray going on in the kitchen and adjoining living room, Ian suggests accenting with color. Together, they agree upon a blue patterned floor runner, solid swivel-top trash can, and some random knick-knacks from the Target site. Finally, Ian then convinces Mickey to buy a small art print of a skeleton hand holding up its middle finger that’s currently on sale on Society6.

Throughout the rest of the week, Mickey takes some of the leftover paint from the cabinets and paints his coffee table, end tables, and TV stand.

And really, over the past few weeks, he’s spent a little less than he would have spent on his kestrel Gold Package if he’d still been subscribed. With the rest of the money he still has budgeted, he buys Jovi a sleek food and water bowl set and feeding mat.

He feels good.

He feels accomplished.

His apartment smells faintly of paint, which gives it that new-house smell, and his surroundings are clean and fresh in a way that he’s literally never had before. _Never_. His house growing up was an absolute shithole. There were holes in the walls, the carpet was _filthy_ , and everything was covered in a layer of grime.

There was mold in the bathroom, the shower drain was perpetually clogged, water filling the tub up to your ankles by the time you were ready to get out, and there were patches of tar-staining on the ceilings.

It’s Saturday night, now, and Mickey sits down cross-legged on his living room floor and looks around. And it’s in that moment that he takes a deep breath and just whispers, “Fuck.” Because a part of him--the part of him that’s still the scared kid in juvie believing he’s fucked for life with no chance of ever escaping his circumstances--can’t believe he _has this_.

He’s still Southside. He’s Southside forever. It’s a part of him, and he wants it to be a part of him. But just because he’s Southside doesn’t mean he can’t hope for things. Can’t have things, want things, love things.

Jovi comes up and rubs against him then, and Mickey pulls him into his lap, maneuvering him until he’s cradling him a bit like a baby.

The cat purrs and purrs like a fuckin’ motor and flexes his front paws in the air as if kneading something invisible, happy as hell to be in Mickey’s arms. Quickly, Mickey leans down and presses a kiss to the space between Jovi’s eyes.

 _Goddammit_ , he loves this fuckin’ cat.

His phone rings then--the FaceTime tone--and without a second thought, he accepts Ian’s call.

Smiling, he immediately flips the camera and puts it on Jovi, who’s cracked open his eyes but who otherwise is pretty blissed out, not a care in the world.

Ian makes a dumb-ass baby talk sound and greets the cat in a high-pitched voice, fuckin’ delighted by the thing.

Mickey gets tired of it after a while and flips the camera back. He smirks at Ian, who’s standing in his kitchen. He’s got on a white tank top that his soft nipples are showing through and a pair of black gym shorts. The sides of his hair have been freshly cut, buzzed close to his head, making his longer hair on top look extra floppy. 

He looks hot.

“You look good,” Mickey says, though his cheeks flame up a little despite his commitment to bravery.

Ian’s mouth curls in that sweet, closed-mouth smile. “Got a haircut today.”

Mickey’s into it. He raises his eyebrows and nods. Runs a hand over his own hair, which isn’t _entirely_ dissimilar to Ian’s, the sides cropped close in a mid-taper, leaving the hair up top long. 

He smiles. “What’s up?”

“Just wanted to see you. Did I interrupt a Jovi cuddle session?”

“Fuck you,” Mickey grumbles, though he’s still very pointedly holding his cat like a baby, supporting his weight on his thighs, Jovi’s head resting in the crook of his left arm.

“Hey, look,” Ian says, walking backwards a few steps and hopping up to sit on the counter opposite where his phone rests. “There’s no shame in loving animals, man. It’s sexy as hell.”

“Yeah, thanks for the support.” Mickey rolls his eyes. “I’d flip you off if I could.”

“But you can’t because you’re lovingly cradling your cat.”

“Bitch.”

Ian presses his lips into a straight line for a second and then laughs. And Mickey takes the opportunity then to just look at him.

Since he’s sitting up on the counter, Mickey can see his entire body. His shorts, which hit a couple inches above the knee, are a little blousy--basketball shorts, really, ones Ian clearly just wears to lounge around the apartment--and Mickey can see the edge of his pinstriped boxers up the leg hole.

And then there are his skinny, hairy legs, which Mickey so rarely gets to see. Ian’s got on a pair of white socks with gray bottoms and “Hanes” across the toes. He swings his legs a little and finally crosses them at the ankles.

They talk for a few minutes about Mickey’s shipments--the box that arrived that day from Target and the rest of his kitchen items that are still on the way--and then Mickey, gently shooing Jovi off his lap, stands up and takes Ian on an apartment tour.

Ian grabs a Naked Green Machine smoothie from the fridge and walks over to lean over the counter closer to his phone so he can see the screen more clearly.

Mickey starts with the living room, turning on all the lights in order to show Ian his newly-painted coffee table, TV stand, and end-tables. Then he walks him into the kitchen so he can see the floor runner, trash can, and knick-knacks in action.

The art print hasn’t arrived yet, but Mickey shows Ian where he's going to hang it.

And then, just for fun, even though Ian’s already seen them, Mickey takes him back through the bathroom and finally into his bedroom, where he stretches out on his bed. He’s got a new comforter set--a cheap-ass Wal-Mart “bed in a bag,” but he’d liked it, and it’s not like he’s used to sleeping on anything higher quality than scratchy, 400-thread count sheets, anyway. It’s a red and black colorblock set, and he’s happy with how it looks in conjunction with his walls.

“Everything looks great, Mickey,” Ian says, voice gentle. “I wish you’d let me Venmo you the kestrel money. It’d more than cover the cost of all this.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Nah, man. You earned that shit. Just keep it.”

“But I earned it while doing something I definitely would’ve done for free.” He works his mouth a little, unsure. “Kinda felt like I was gettin’ paid to fall for you, so.” He shrugs. 

Mickey’s heart gives a kick at that. His stomach twists. He reaches up and runs a hand over his face, lingering a bit around his mouth. Rubs the side of his index finger back and forth over his lips. “It’s your money, man.”

Ian sniffs and shrugs a shoulder. “It’s in my savings account. I’m not gonna spend it.”

“Should.”

“Yeah, well. It feels weird.” He looks at Mickey for a minute, eyes wandering all over his face like he’s memorizing him. “If you don’t want me to send it to you, then we can just do something with it together, maybe. Save up for something, or.” He bites his lip for a second, and Mickey can see the nervous tension settling over his features as he registers the fact that he’s just referenced a future for them beyond meeting up and fucking out their feelings. “I dunno.”

Mickey shrugs a shoulder and looks back at Ian. “Somethin’ like what?”

Ian’s mouth spreads into a smile, and his eyes light with a quick burst of life, of energy that had faded a bit over the past minute. “Something for us. Something fun or something we want, maybe.” And there’s something about his face, then, that tells Mickey clear as day that he’s about to _push_. “Something we want _together_.”

Mickey wants to ask, _How do you know it’s gonna work out?_ And he wants to ask, _What if we’re not physically compatible and the sex isn’t any good?_ And he really wants to ask, _What if I’m not what you’re expecting when you meet me for real?_

But what he asks is, “How much is it?”

And it’s probably the most emotionless question he could’ve asked--a one-eighty from Ian’s sweet suggestion.

If Ian’s thrown by it, though, he doesn’t react. He twists up his mouth for a minute, thinking, and murmurs, “A little over three-hundred.”

Mickey nods. Sniffs. “Could help cover your rent.”

“I’m not using it, Mick.” Ian’s got this stubborn-ass look on his face, like he’s a six-year-old who’s outright _refusing_ to go to bed. “I give it back to you, we use it together, or it rots away in my savings account. Those are the options.”

Stupid, sweet-ass motherfucker.

Mickey rolls his eyes at him. “Whatever.”

Seemingly satisfied, Ian takes a drink of his smoothie.

\---

They talk for a bit longer about nothing at all important--some show Ian’s watching on Netflix and how Mickey’s welcome to use his account, how Mickey had to track down a lost toddler at work on Friday, and how Ian’s going to try to quit smoking again. 

Mickey gets up at that point and goes to the kitchen to make himself a snack. He’s got some Ritz crackers and a can of Easy Cheese, and he stands at the counter, spraying out a mound of processed cheese product onto each cracker and shoving it in his mouth.

“You’re disgusting,” Ian says, laughing.

“Fuck you,” Mickey answers with his mouth full, holding up his middle finger and then laughing himself, leading him to choke on the chewed up mixture in his mouth.

He’s out of beer, so he grabs a plastic tumbler out of the cabinet and fills it up with water from the tap, coughing every few seconds until he’s able to tilt it up and drain it, washing down whatever was stuck at the back of his throat.

“Hot,” Ian murmurs.

In retaliation, Mickey picks up the can of Easy Cheese and sprays it directly into his mouth.

Sometimes, they just have a lot of fuckin’ fun.

And though they’ve been having FaceTime sex multiple times per week, they don’t do it tonight. But they do fall into that softer moment as the clock ticks closer to midnight.

Mickey’s stretched out on his couch, Jovi resting on his belly, and Ian’s on his bed, one arm bent behind his head where it rests on the pillow.

“You work tomorrow?” Mickey asks, rubbing Jovi’s ears with his left hand. The cat makes a chirping noise of recognition and twists around, getting comfortable.

As if his body knows what Mickey’s getting at, Ian yawns and nods. “Bright and early.”

“Get some rest. You never get your eight hours.”

Ian _hm_ s. “Why sleep when you can stay up late talking to a hot guy and then be moderately tired the next day?”

Mickey snorts. Rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay, tough guy.”

Ian smiles at him, and then _yeah_. There they go, staring at each other again.

Surprisingly, Ian’s the first to break this time, as he squeezes his eyes shut and yawns again, and _fuck_. He looks cute as hell, face all scrunched up.

“I _should_ go to sleep, though,” Ian admits after a few seconds, after he’s stretched his yawn out to ridiculous levels, turning it into a full-body twist and groan. There’s a motion as if he’s scratching his belly, and then he brings that hand up and scratches the stubble at his chin.

Mickey nods. “I’m gonna go.”

“‘kay.” Ian stares at him for a second, and then, with a funny little quirk of his mouth, like he knows he’s being ridiculous, he kisses his index and middle fingers and briefly presses them to the camera. “Night.”

“Weird motherfucker.” Mickey flips him off but presses his tongue to the corner of his mouth and grins.

“Hmm,” Ian starts, schooling his face like he’s about to say something serious. “Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I _think_ we’re at the level where it’s okay to admit that we like each other.”

Mickey knows what this is. This is his attempt to make him blush.

And _goddammit_ , it works every fuckin’ time he tries it. He flips him off again, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks.

“I hate you,” he says, narrowing his eyes.

Ian just lowers the phone, bringing it closer to his face, eyes scanning all over Mickey’s features--slowly, slowly. He smiles. “Can we admit it?”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Fuck you, man.”

“Oh, oh. And can we _also_ admit that I’m gonna give you your first kiss? ‘Cause I think about that shit a lot.”

“I’m fuckin’ hangin’ up. Night.”

Ian laughs, and it’s soft and sleepy, and it stops Mickey from actually pressing the end call button once he’s got his finger up.

“Made ya blush,” Ian says, staring, staring, a gentle smile just touching his lips.

That just makes it _worse_. Mickey puts his hand over his face like he’s rubbing at it out of exhaustion. Feigns a yawn.

“Cute bitch,” Ian whispers. He sighs, pleased, before murmuring, “Night, Mick.”

Mickey pulls back the corner of his mouth in a half-smile. “Night, Ian.”

\---

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (11:38 PM):** You can go back to cuddling Jovi, now.

\-------------------------------------------------------

And the fact that they apparently just _cannot_ fucking leave each other alone would be annoying to Mickey if it didn’t give his stomach a twist whenever Ian seems reluctant to cut the cord, drop the connection.

Mickey reaches down to where Jovi’s still lying on his belly, one arm outstretched, and gives him a pat, stirring him into a _brrrr_ noise of recognition. 

He takes a picture of him and sends it to Ian.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (11:41 PM):** Can’t wait to meet him.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey lies there for a few minutes, idly rubbing at Jovi’s ears and imagining Ian petting him, being the latest victim of his head-sleeping tendencies, tossing his mouse toy and laughing as he darts after it like a dog.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (11:43 PM):** Night, Mickey. ❤️️

\-------------------------------------------------------

He drops open his mouth at that heart, breath picking up.

And he’s aware that a heart emoji doesn’t mean romantic love. It means affection, maybe. Fondness. I’m thinking of you. I like you. I care for you.

He _knows_ that. 

Though it’s taking some getting used to, and though he’s not sure how much that translates over to the real world, Mickey _is_ starting to believe that Ian feels those things for him. That he likes him. Is attracted to him. Thinks about him, sometimes.

So he’s for damn sure not gonna overanalyze a fucking red heart emoji that everybody uses for a thousand meaningless reasons.

But it does make his belly twist, and he looks at it for a little too awkwardly long to be normal, probably, his left hand stilled in Jovi’s fur and his right holding his phone in front of his face.

He looks at it and looks at it, and well, it would be weird to just say “Night” in response, right? 

And if Ian’s using the heart to mean _I like you, I’m attracted to you, I think about you_ , then it’d maybe be a bit of a bitch move to ignore that shit.

Mickey’s top emojis are 🖕, 👍, and 🔪, and he has to actively search all the way back to the symbols section of the keyboard because he’s never used a fuckin’ heart emoji in his life.

And y’know, this is all just really fuckin’ stupid and embarrassing, but he types out his message, adds in his goddamn heart, and sends it.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (11:48 PM):** Night, you soft motherfucker 🖤

\-------------------------------------------------------

\---  
\---

When Mickey first met his landlady, he was a couple paychecks into his job at the mall, and he was answering an ad in the paper about an apartment for lease. 

The building itself was three stories, red brick, with a pointed roof and rows of arched windows. It was apparently an orphanage up until the eighties, when it was purchased by the Callaghans and converted into a nine-room bed and breakfast. It was later converted again into a four-unit apartment building in the early 2000s when Mr. Callaghan died of a massive heart attack.

Mickey had called ahead that day, and when he arrived at ten o’clock, gray button-down tucked into a pair of black jeans and carrying a manila folder with the proof of income shit she’d asked for, Mrs. Callaghan was waiting in the mailroom-slash-leasing office-slash-lounge area that comprised half of the bottom floor. 

And Mickey’s never been one to take an immediate liking to someone upon first meeting, really, but he somehow liked her almost instantly. 

She was warm in what Mickey gathered from television was a grandmotherly way--doting on him from the start, telling him he looked handsome in his outfit--but she also took absolutely no bullshit and was assertive as fuck in getting what she wanted.

But more than that, she was _fair_.

“Now, I mostly rent to women and married couples. Ain’t had a single man in here since that travesty of the goddamn Bush presidency.” She leveled him with a green-eyed stare and pushed her artfully horn-rimmed glasses up on top of her head to seemingly get a better look at him. “You look like a nice boy. Got a decent job. Not sure about your tattoos, but I know there’s a story there.”

Mickey’s also never been one to just stare at a person while they talk _at_ him, but well. He did. He stared at her, gripping his folder in front of him, and listened to her talk.

“My rate for the unit’s six-hundred a month, not including utilities, but I’m gonna give it to you for five-hundred on the condition that you help me around the place.” She stood from where she’d been sitting at a little table shoved into the corner near a potted plant. “Mowing the lawn. Honey-do work. My David’s been gone for sixteen years, and I’ve got arthritis.”

Mickey simply nodded at her, at a loss for words, and said, “Yes, ma’am.” 

She patted him on the shoulder. “Alright, Love Bug,” she said, starting to make her way toward the staircase. “Lemme show you the unit.”

\---

It’s been nearly a year since that day. 

It’s the morning after he and Ian had exchanged those stupid fuckin’ heart emojis, and he’s lounging at Mrs. C.’s kitchen table eating eggs, toast, and bacon while she sits across from him sipping her morning coffee.

He’d been down to fix a drip under her bathroom sink, and it’d been an easy job--nothing a quick YouTube tutorial couldn’t show him how to do. As always, she’d wanted him to eat with her afterward, and he’d obliged with only the minimal amount of grumbling.

And he doesn’t know how their casual conversation turns over to Ian, really. How he lets it get away from him. He’s just been on his mind a _whole_ hell of a lot lately, and when she pats his hand affectionately and asks if he’s dating anyone, he fuckin’ _tells her_.

He’s not worried about the gay thing in general, as she’s constantly carrying on about the republicans and their agenda to make everybody “white, heterosexual, and evangelical,” but he is a little nervous about her reaction to _him_ being gay. For a moment, it even feels a bit like what he would imagine it would feel like for a kid to come out to his grandmother.

“I’ve kinda got a. Guy. That I’m sorta seein’, I think,” he says, immediately shoveling in a forkful of eggs.

And she just stares at him, her face going from bright and teasing to soft, kind.

“What’s his name?”

Mickey swallows the eggs and chases it down with a few sips of orange juice. “Ian.”

Mrs. C. plays around with the beaded necklace around her neck, looking at Mickey with nothing but complete love and acceptance. “And were you ever gonna tell me about him?”

Mickey shrugs and looks down at his plate, eyeing the one remaining bacon strip, the chewed remains of his toast crusts.

“Well,” she continues once she decides he apparently isn’t going to answer. “I can’t wait to meet him.”

And just like Mickey was excited about Ian meeting his cat, he also can’t wait for him to meet Mrs. Callaghan. If she likes Mickey, she’s gonna fuckin’ love Ian.

He bites his lip then, and with a little shrug--mostly to himself--tells her about him. And she asks questions but not too many, and she refills his orange juice and gets him more eggs while listening to him tell her about how Mickey’d agreed to go with him to a Fourth of July party.

And when he’s leaving twenty minutes later, belly full and feeling a bit wobbly from the adrenaline rush that came with _talking to someone_ about Ian, she hugs him, kisses his cheek, and says, voice even, no bullshit, “He’s gonna adore you, Mickey. I don’t know how anybody can know you and not love you.”

He closes his eyes when she says it.

\---

He’ll never be used to people liking him, he thinks, making the same climb up to his unit that he made with Mrs. Callaghan a year prior. 

Jovi greets him at the door with a little _brrrr_ noise, rubbing the side of his body back and forth against Mickey’s legs.

He’ll never be used to people liking him, not because he’s _unlikable_ by his nature but because he never before _wanted_ to be liked by anyone who wanted to like him. 

He wanted to be liked by Dylan Kelly when he was nine, but Dylan thought he was a rude, pencil-stealing thief. 

He wanted to be admired by the other kids in juvie--wanted that street cred that came with power, with notoriety--but he was ultimately just a four-foot-ten thirteen-year-old who lashed out, who hid behind his threats because he was just as fucked as everybody else in there. 

And, really, as much as he fuckin’ hated him, as much as he would spit on his grave, dance on his grave if he had one, Mickey spent the first twenty years of his life wanting desperately to be loved by his goddamn _dad_ , who saw him as nothing more than a tool and who would’ve put a bullet between his eyes if he’d found out what Mickey thought about, sometimes, when he looked at boys. 

Mickey Milkovich had somehow lived twenty-five years of his life never having a single relationship built on mutual like. Not familial obligation. Not _You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours_. Not _I’ll tolerate you if you shut the fuck up_. 

But genuine, _We met, and I like you, and I want to be around you, and you feel the same way about me_. 

Like.

And somehow, he’s managed to acquire _three_ of those fuckin’ relationships in the span of a year, even if one of them is a cat.

Mickey bites his lip and scoops up Jovi.

“Alright, gremlin,” he murmurs, carrying him into the kitchen. “Let’s get you some food.”

He sets him on the countertop while he grabs his bowl and pours him out some Cat Chow. And as he’s setting the bowl down on the feeding mat, he gets a text from Ian.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (10:12 AM):** At work and can’t really talk, but I just wanted to say that the black heart’s punk rock as fuck, but might I tempt you with a blue one? 💙

\-------------------------------------------------------

Stupid-ass ginger motherfucker.

Mickey smiles.

He’ll never be used to people liking him, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel good when they do.

\---  
\---

He’s been at his job for a little over a year. And he doesn't love it, it doesn't inspire him and shit, but it's steady, and his coworkers are alright, and it’s actually pretty okay when there’s actual _shit_ going on of more consequence than petty theft and fights in the food court.

Black Friday shopping, for example. Midnight movie premiere showings. Fuckin’ beauty YouTuber meet-and-greets at the makeup store.

Monday is fucking _ridiculous_.

He has to come in two hours early--three hours before the mall actually opens--and when he arrives, he sees that there’s already a line of teenage girls forming outside the front doors.

“Gonna be a long day, Milkovich,” Sean says to him when he enters the security office. “You sure you’re up for it?”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “It’s a bunch of fuckin’ little girls. How hard can it be?”

\---

It’s a good thing there are actual police officers on duty today because Mickey thinks he would’ve otherwise committed multiple acts of homicide.

They’ve got him stationed out in the middle of the literal _hundreds_ of people, mostly keeping the kids from shoving, cutting in line, and pulling each other’s hair or whatever-the-fuck girls do.

And he’d thought that it would be easy shit--just stand there, yell a little, and radio a cop if he notices anything illegal, violent, or significantly disruptive. He’s been given explicit instruction by his supervisor _not_ to knock the kids around, and he smiles a little when he thinks about it, proud he’s got that reputation.

He’s got his headset on, listening to directions from the security officers at the mouth of Sephora, who are giving the guys in the crowd indications for when to get the line moving and when to hold back. And the kids are fucking _relentless_ , the knowledge that everybody who’s got a goddamned ticket’s gonna get in just not sinking in at all. They push each other, try to sneak closer to the front, and Mickey’s never really spent a lot of time around girls in his life other than his sister, but he quickly discovers that they’re surprisingly _vicious_ , their fights never-fucking-ending, even when he’s grabbed the smallest one and pulled her backward, the kid still kicking and screaming the whole way.

So, yeah. By the time noon rolls around, the event having only one more hour to go, Mickey’s about to kill somebody with his bare hands.

And thank God, thank _fuck_ there’s some action then that doesn’t involve a heated discussion about eyeshadow palettes. 

Mickey’s standing in a gap in the crowd that has thankfully receded over the past couple of hours, the kids being ushered out of the area and into the rest of the mall after attending the meet-and-greet. He’s toying idly with the antenna of his walkie, scanning the crowd for stupid shit, when a little blonde girl to his right, who’s been standing with her knees locked, drops like a sack of potatoes.

She hits the concrete tile of the mall floor face-first, just smacking into it in such a way that her head makes a sickening _thud_ like a watermelon hitting the floor. 

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Mickey murmurs, scurrying over to the kid, who’s currently being surrounded. 

“Move it!” he yells, shoving past the bystanders and crouching down beside the girl, who’s for all intents and purposes out cold. 

He’s not supposed to assess her injuries, not supposed to try to administer any sort of medical care unless as a last resort, so, while placing a hand on her wrist and gently squeezing, trying to see if there’s some life in there, he radios for help.

“Get the fuck back,” he commands afterwards of the kids surrounding him, waving his arms to the sides to get them to scatter. “Go be fuckin’ useful, get some fuckin’ help, just get the fuck back!”

His heart’s in his throat, his arms are like Jell-o, and he just keeps squeezing her wrist over and over again. And she ain’t fuckin’ dead--her back’s rising and falling with her breaths--but she’s _out_. She hit her head _hard_ , if the sound was anything to go by, and _fuck_ , she could have cracked her skull, or have fuckin’ brain damage, or--

Mickey feels the gentle press of a hand on his lower back, followed by a hastily murmured, “Emergency Medical Service. Out of the way please, sir.”

He scrambles out of the way, pushing up to standing and taking several huge steps out of the circle of EMTs, who are currently surrounding the girl, their medical bags at the ready.

He feels his pulse in his neck, the skin there twitching, adrenaline giving him shaky limbs and quick breaths, and it’s then, as he’s got his arms out, slowly backing the group of teenage bystanders out of the way, that he sees it.

Sees him.

And in that moment, he forgets everything.

He forgets where he is, _who_ he is, forgets the pretty fuckin’ dire nature of the situation, forgets that he’s surrounded by children, forgets that he actually has to breathe in order to get oxygen, in order to keep his body going, keep alive.

His stomach is in _knots_ , and for a second, he thinks he’s going to just fuckin’ vomit-- _would_ fuckin’ vomit if he had the brain power to understand what’s happening, where he is, who he is.

There are three EMTs, and one of them is Ellie Sanchez, and one of them is Amita Kumar, and one of them is 

Ian Gallagher.

And he’s beautiful, he’s fucking _beautiful_ , and he’s in his blue, short-sleeved uniform with the patches, and he’s got his hair combed back neatly, and he’s got those fuckin’ freckles on his cheeks and on his forehead and, if he were to close his eyes, if Mickey were to be closer, if Mickey were to be brave, if he were to approach, he would see that he’s got them on his eyelids, too.

Ian’s working diligently, and his hands are gentle as they, along with Ellie’s, flip the girl over, as they prod at her, as they run over the front of her skull.

He’s working diligently, and he has no idea--no fucking idea that Mickey’s there, that he’s ten feet away, backed up against a crowd of teenagers, watching him, and breathing, and trying not to lose it.

No fucking idea that he’s touched his lower back, right above the line of his belt, and murmured, “Out of the way please, sir.”

He’d called him _sir_.

And it’s stupid, and it makes no sense, and it’s definitely not fuckin’ real, but Mickey thinks he can feel the sense-memory of the hand on him still, that gentle, steady pressure.

The girl on the floor’s stirring, and Ian’s bent low, talking to her, and the look on his face is sweet--is so calm and caring as he talks to this fifteen-year-old, reassures her.

Mickey can’t hear his words, but he knows the face, knows the voice that comes when Ian looks like that.

And there’s something about that--about watching Ian talk so softly to her, watching Ian nod his head and say something to the other EMTs, and gently, gently scoop his hand under the girl’s upper back to help her sit up--that gives Mickey a surge of anxiety so strong he thinks he may pass out with it.

He’s sweating, he discovers, as he slowly, slowly backs further into the crowd behind him. He feels it dripping down the backs of his knees, and he knows he’s got rings under his arms. And he’s trying to breathe, in-out, in-out, steady, steady, slow, slow. 

There’s clapping, then, and Mickey’s just close enough to the edge of the crowd to see the EMTs standing, Ian helping support the girl as she stands, herself.

And Ian’s still talking to her, all his attention focused on her in that moment, smiling that fuckin’ closed-mouth smile of his and keeping a hand on her upper back as the four of them slowly move off to the side and start to walk out of the area.

Mickey leans over, hands to his knees, and breathes.

\---

He’s in a daze as he patrols the crowds during that last forty-five minutes of the event, heart hammering at what he can only assume is unhealthy levels.

 _He saw Ian_.

And not only that, but Ian _touched him_ \--he felt the fuckin’ weight of his hand--and if he’d even _considered_ while he was crouched there, hand around the kid’s wrist, back turned to the three people walking up behind him, that the person could’ve been Ian, he would’ve paid more attention. Would’ve inhaled deeply, would’ve considered the warmth of his breath on the back of his head as he murmured to him to move out of the way.

He would’ve done _something_.

And holy fuck, the event’s not over yet, and chances are, unless Ian had to take the kid to the hospital, he’s still here somewhere, still on duty in the same location as Mickey.

“What’s with you, Milkovich?” Sean asks him from where he’s leaned back against the side of the makeup store, muscular arms crossed over his chest. “You gettin’ sick?”

Mickey rubs both hands over his face, feels the heat of his skin, and knows he must be red and splotchy.

“Nah, man. I’m good.” He shakes his head and heads into the bathroom to splash water over his face.

He looks at himself in the mirror then, sees his pink skin, how his eyes look a little glassy, how his hairline’s damp with sweat.

And Jesus Christ, if this is how he gets when he just _sees_ Ian Gallagher in person, what the fuck’s gonna happen when he _speaks_ to him? How the hell’s he supposed to get in bed with him without stroking out?

“Fuck,” he whispers, turning on the faucet with his wrist and scooping up some of the cold water to splash on his face. 

_Goddammit_ , Gallagher.

He grabs a paper towel, pats his face dry, and leaves the bathroom to finish out the rest of his duty.

\---

It occurs to him, as he’s in the security office, debriefing with Sean and his supervisor following the end of the event, that a _normal fucking person_ wouldn’t be acting the way he is.

Holy fuck. What kind of pathetic-ass dude goes into an actual sweaty panic from something as stupid as seeing a guy you’ve been talking to online in real life? Who _does_ that?

Who sees the guy you’ve been _FaceTiming_ with and almost throws up from nerves?

He pinches his knee, which is bouncing up and down like a motherfucker, trying to pull himself together.

“Seriously, Milkovich. What’s _with_ you?” Sean asks. Mickey’s sitting in a cracked chair in his supervisor’s office, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing his legs, and he looks like he’s on fuckin’ drugs.

Mickey flips him off and stands to leave, their meeting over, anyway.

Once out of his office, he closes his eyes, blows out a breath, and leans his head back.

Should he _text him_? Would a normal person text him, tell him he saw him?

Or would that be even weirder? _Hey, listen. I saw you at the mall. In fact, you literally touched my back, but I was such a fuckin’ pussy that I fuckin’ hid._

That’s definitely much, much fuckin’ weirder.

 _Fuck_.

Mickey’s supposed to go on his lunch break, but he sits down on the sofa in the break area of the security office, instead.

He wishes, more than anything, that Ian had seen him. Because that would’ve solved all his problems, right? He’d no longer have to worry about having to make the first move. He wouldn’t have to worry about whether or not he should _text him_. 

And shit, now he’s seen him in person and yet he’s exactly zero percent closer to him than he was before because Ian doesn’t fuckin’ know.

“You having issues with your lady?” Sean asks suddenly, interrupting his train of thought. 

Mickey looks up and watches the guy push his way out of the supervisor’s office. He’s an Adonis, his entire physical appearance pretty objectively perfect, but he’s dumb as a rock.

Mickey runs his hand across his face.

And y’know what? What the fuck.

“I dunno,” he says, irritably. “Sort of.”

Sean sits down on the couch beside him and leans back, legs spread wide in this annoyingly uber-confident straight guy way. “You in the doghouse?” 

Mickey works his mouth--really, _really_ regretting saying anything, but well. He sighs. “No. We’re not like, _together_.” He pauses. “Well, we are, but.”

“Milkovich, you sly dog. Gettin’ that pussy. I see how it is.”

Mickey suppresses a gag. He bites his lip, and he hates himself.

With an elbow to Mickey’s ribs, Sean continues with, “So you’re fuckin’ this girl, but you wanna _relationship_?”

Jesus Christ. What the fuck is he doing? “We’ve been kinda texting, and we haven’t met up in person yet.”

“And you wanna meet her?”

The _her_ keeps throwing Mickey off, but he shrugs. “Yeah?”

Sean bro-slaps his huge-ass hand down on Mickey’s shoulder. “Then what’re you fuckin’ waiting for, dude? If you want the pussy, you gotta _get after it_.”

This entire conversation has him contemplating murder, really. He shifts away from Sean’s hand. “Thanks,” he says dryly. “I’ll get after it.”

“And who the fuck _cares_ if she don’t like you when she meets you? There’s other fish in the sea, dude.”

Mickey scratches the back of his neck. Yeah, well. He stands.

“Trust me, Milkovich. Ain’t no pussy worth gettin’ torn up over. Shoot your shot.”

He can’t get out of there fast enough.

And he really can’t stand Sean in all the important ways. He’s an annoying blowhard who never has anything to say or brag about that even remotely piques Mickey’s interest. 

But _fine_. Maybe he _should_ just bite the fuckin’ bullet. _Shoot his shot_. Because ultimately, it’s either gonna work out or it isn’t. Ian’s gonna like him or he isn’t. And really, Mickey’s gonna go fuckin’ crazy if he goes home today and tries to fall back into his and Ian’s regular pattern of texting, talking, FaceTiming, discussing _the future_ and _when they meet_ and _what they’re going to do to each other_ without letting Ian know that he _fucking saw him_.

Plus, he’s not sure he can handle another conversation with Sean about this shit.

He rubs his hands across his face.

 _Goddammit_ , Gallagher.

Mickey shoulders open the outer security office door and walks out into the mall.

The walk to the food court is excruciating. It’s still crowded as hell, a large portion of the hundreds of people who came for the meet-and-greet still milling around in small groups, drinking their iced Starbucks coffees and eating their Cinnabons. Mickey has to yell at a couple people on the way--a group of teenagers climbing up on the decorative sculpture in the mall center, their friend snapping a photo of them on his phone.

Fuckin’ _teenagers_.

He puts in his earbuds and listens to Ian’s “Misc.” playlist for the rest of his walk, even though he hates half the songs on it. He blushes a little, anyway, thinking about the ginger motherfucker and how the blue of his uniform made his hair stand out just that much more and how really, _really_ he is somehow more beautiful in person.

\---

Once in the food court, Mickey buys his Clubby from Potbelly and takes it to his usual two-seater table near the back. 

He often brings a magazine with him to entertain him as he eats, but this time, fuck him, he’s got something else to do.

He takes a few bites of his sandwich, trying to actually get some food in him before he gets too fuckin’ anxious to eat, and washes them down with a few heavy swallows of Cherry Coke.

And he’s going to do this, isn’t he? He’s going to tell Ian he saw him, and it’s gonna open up a can of worms, will set a series of events into motion that can only end in them meeting. That can only end in the moment of truth.

_It’s either gonna work out or it isn’t. Ian’s gonna like him or he isn’t._

Mickey takes a deep breath and pulls out his phone.

There are a lot of things he can type.

He could type, _Saw you at the mall today._

And he could type, _You’re much more beautiful in person_.

And he could type, _You touched my fuckin’ back today, did you know? Did you know that you touched my back and you murmured to me and you fuckin’ called me sir?_

But what he types is

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (1:41 PM):** Hey

\-------------------------------------------------------

He immediately wishes he didn’t. Now he’s gotta _wait_. He’s gotta wait for Ian to respond, and then he’ll have to tell him, and really, _really_ he’s just delaying the moment, increasing his anxiety.

Mickey purses his lips, inhales slowly, slowly, and blows that breath out, trying to calm himself. He feels the blood surging through his limbs, feels the pulse-twitch in his neck. He swallows.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (1:43 PM):** Hey! 

**Ian (1:43 PM):** What’s up?

\-------------------------------------------------------

And here it is, really. The moment of truth.

He’s gonna shoot is fuckin’ shot, goddammit and fuck you, Sean.

_It’s either gonna work out or it isn’t. Ian’s gonna like him or he isn’t._

He tap-tap-taps his fingers against the sides of his phone, then touches his thumbs to the screen and types.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (1:45 PM):** I wanted to tell you something

\-------------------------------------------------------

He bites his lip-- _hard_ , hard until it hurts, almost. Thumbs at his nose.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (1:46 PM):** I saw you today

 **Mickey (1:46 PM):** At the mall

\-------------------------------------------------------

And the more Mickey texts, his messages this stream of conversation snatches, details added one after the other in the perfect, stilted picture of nervousness, the more he begins to realize something.

His heart fuckin’ stops.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (1:46 PM):** You were helpin that kid who passed out

\-------------------------------------------------------

The fuckin’ _ding_ of a text tone.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (1:46 PM):** I work there

\-------------------------------------------------------

The pattern of noises lining up exactly with Mickey’s messages.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (1:46 PM):** I was like fuckin’ six feet away from you, man

\-------------------------------------------------------

 _Ding_.

Mickey closes his eyes.

And he’d always thought it was fuckin’ stupid when people claimed to have _felt_ someone’s presence. Like, how do you fuckin’ _feel_ that shit?

But.

He breathes out his mouth in quick little pants, hands gripping with desperation the sides of his phone.

He fuckin’ _feels him_.

He _hears_ him.

He hears

\-------------------------------------------------------

“Mickey?”

\-------------------------------------------------------

He breathes.

\---

Mickey looks up.

He _breathes_ , and he _looks up_ , and he sees Ian Gallagher standing ten feet away from him.

He’s got a navy jacket on over his short-sleeved uniform top, and he’s _beautiful_ , and he’s freckled, and he’s holding a red tray with the remains of his Panda Express lunch.

He’s breathing out his mouth, lips parted, and he’s just staring at Mickey like he can’t believe it.

“Holy fuck,” he murmurs, soft, soft, so soft Mickey can barely hear it.

Holy fuck.

\---

Mickey stands as Ian walks closer, and he can _feel_ him still, that tingly-nerves feeling that’s both deep, deep to his bones and yet _electric_ , dancing across the hairs of his arms, his legs.

Ian’s face is changing, moving, going from wide-eyed shock to something unbearably _soft_ and _fond_ , the corners of his lips turning up, those lines at the sides of his mouth deepening with it, his eyes flashing from anxious caution to this almost starry-eyed happiness.

And in this moment, Mickey sees that fuckin’ freckle-faced kid in the Kash and Grab, and he sees that closed-mouth smile, those stupid bangs, and _goddammit_ , Gallagher. 

Why didn’t he know him then?

And it’s stupid, really, but all Mickey’s thinking as Ian steps closer and closer to him is that he would’ve fuckin’ loved him.

“Mickey,” Ian says again, and Mickey’s looking at him this time, looking at him standing three feet away, saying his name.

Mickey closes his eyes for a moment, runs his hand over his face. “Fuck.”

And when he opens them, Ian’s smiling at him.

“You’re tall,” Mickey says, looking up at his face, and he knows in that moment that his own face flushes a bright red so fast he gets a little breathless, the blood-rush hot beneath his skin. 

Smooth.

Ian laughs at that, all breath, and Mickey watches his knuckles go white as he squeezes the sides of his tray in his hands. As he looks at him.

And he’s got this quizzical look on his face, and his mouth is quirked a bit, and the more Mickey looks at him, the more he can’t believe it.

His breathing picks up.

And Ian isn’t really saying much at all, just looking at him, and the moment is so fuckin’ awkward that Mickey has to look away, eyes finding the floor, his abandoned sandwich, Ian’s black sneakers.

“Well,” Ian starts. Mickey glances back up at him. “This is awkward as fuck.”

And Mickey _laughs_ at that.

Here they are, two fucking idiots, standing in the middle of the mall food court, staring at each other and well, now Ian’s laughing, too.

He’s squeezing his eyes shut with it, even, and he’s scrunching his nose, and Mickey just looks at him and looks at him and thinks about how he’s beautiful and thinks about how he loves the freckles on his eyelids. And--

Ian’s phone chooses that minute to _ding_ again, reminding him of Mickey’s messages.

“Sorry,” he says, shoving his hand in his pocket and pulling out his phone. “Somebody texted me like twenty fuckin’ times. Let me just.”

He smiles when he reads the messages. Looks up at Mickey.

Mickey blows out a breath. 

And then, in a move that both makes Mickey want to run the fuck away and walk the fuck closer, closer, closer until he can smell his skin and his breath, Ian, the dumbass ginger motherfucker, puts his tray down on an empty table and texts Mickey back.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (1:49 PM):** Saw you today too, bitch. 😏

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey reads the text and, rolling his eyes, flips him off.

“ _There_ it is,” Ian says, pocketing his phone with a smirk.

“I hate you.”

Ian just stares at him and nods. He presses his lips into a straight line.

And at that moment, Ellie sneaks up to Ian and grabs him around the chest from behind, causing him to jump in surprise.

“Ready to go?” she asks, stepping back and pulling her long, brown hair into a ponytail using a black elastic she’s wearing around her wrist.

Ian sputters for a second, causing Ellie to turn her eyes to Mickey.

“Sorry!” she apologizes brightly, finishing tying up her ponytail with an artful flourish. “I’m Ellie. I work with Ian.”

Mickey nods at her, and Ian, looking _reluctant_ almost, says, “This is Mickey.”

And Ellie Sanchez, dancing with Ian, _lil drunk baby_ ❤️️🍸🍺 Instagram story, is apparently really, _really_ fuckin’ bad at playing cool.

She smacks Ian on the arm.

“Ow!” he yells, and then he turns, his back to Mickey, and they whisper heatedly back and forth for a second like an old married couple.

Mickey glances at his phone during it, and _fuck_ , he’s late, was supposed to have checked back into the security office two minutes ago, and he still has a seven-minute walk through the mall to complete.

“Ian,” he says, running a hand over his face. “I gotta go.”

“Fuck,” Ian replies, shooing off Ellie while nodding. “Us too. We gotta be back in like, fifteen minutes, so.” He twists his fingers together awkwardly, as if needing something to do with them, and then finally grabs his abandoned tray.

And he comes a little closer, then, their three-foot gap steadily decreasing.

And Mickey doesn’t know what he was expecting, but well, a hand on his shoulder wasn’t it.

Ian just gives him a little pat--just three pressure-taps over his traps--and it’s so awkward that Mickey feels a jerk of a laugh in his belly.

“Jesus Christ, man,” he says, and then they’re both laughing, standing two feet apart and looking at their shoes, and well, Mickey can’t believe he’s looking at Ian’s shoes.

He can’t believe he’s in his fucking space, close enough to see the tiny scuff-mark on the toe of his shoe, close enough to see the lint on the cuff of his black uniform pants.

Ellie calls for him, and Mickey looks up to see her standing with Amita by the trash bins in the middle of the food court.

“Go,” Mickey says, talking mostly to the buttons on Ian’s shirt. “I gotta go, too.”

He sniffs and looks up once more, and the two of them just look at each other for a second, eye to eye.

Mickey’s breathing out his mouth, and his stomach’s twisting, twisting.

“I’ll text you,” Ian says, and Mickey nods.

“Bye.”

They nod at each other awkwardly before parting, Ian taking two slow steps backward before turning around and making his way toward Ellie and Amita.

Mickey watches him go, heart beating so hard he puts his hand over it.

 _Holy fuck_.

\---

He’s nearly fifteen minutes late checking in after his lunch break, as he couldn’t fuckin’ concentrate enough on his way back to walk any faster than a snail-speed, brain filled with thoughts of Ian.

 _Jesus Christ_.

He fuckin’ saw him, spoke to him, was touched by him _in person_.

It takes three tries for Mickey to input his employee ID number on the computer in the security office to clock back in.

And he’s useless for the rest of his shift. The mall’s still crowded, and there are teenagers doing stupid shit in every corner, and he maybe lets it slide a little because _he fuckin’ met Ian in person_.

 _Goddammit_ , Gallagher.

Mickey puts in his earbuds and he listens to Ian’s “Misc.” playlist with the stupid music and he thinks about his face and the scuff-mark on his shoe and the lint on his pants leg and the freckles on his eyelids.

\---

When Mickey gets home, he changes into his old black T-shirt with the cut-off sleeves and then takes off his pants and makes himself mac and cheese for dinner. He’d only eaten a few bites of his sandwich at lunch, and though he’d brought it with him back to the security office, he was far too jittery to consume anything other than the rest of his bottle of Cherry Coke.

And really, he can barely eat his mac and cheese.

He’s got “Forensic Files” on in the background, and he’s stretched out on the couch, legs out in front of him across the cushions and crossed at the ankles, and he scrolls through Instagram as he eats.

Ian’s been tagged in a couple photos from today. Amita has up a photo of him sitting in a chair outside an ambulance, sticking out his tongue, and Ellie’s posted one that, funnily enough, was taken in the food court, Ian making a ridiculous face and holding up a piece of chicken he’s speared with a chopstick.

Mickey’s stomach twists a little as he looks at them, as he wonders if he could ever get to a point in which he’s taking stupid pictures of Ian and posting them on Instagram.

And the thing about it is that Amita and Ellie aren’t even that close to Ian outside of work, and here they are having fun with him, laughing with him, _making fun_ of him. 

The two have apparently ganged up on him in an inside joke. Beneath the chopstick photo, Ellie’s written, “when ur too dumb to use chopsticks” and Ian’s commented, “But I’m creative.” Beneath the one of him sticking out his tongue, Amita’s written, “when you’re just too dumb” and Ian’s commented, “But I’m beautiful.”

Can Mickey be _fun_ enough for him?

What the fuck can he even do, really? Mickey can play video games with him, maybe. Smoke weed. Go on walks? Listen to music?

And see, this is the problem with not getting to know him in person. They’ve never tried things together--gone places, engaged in activities. Mickey’s never danced with him in a club and then helped his drunk ass get home safely, and he’s never gone to the movies with him and shared a bucket of popcorn, and he’s never run around with him anywhere, laughing and shoving each other and being idiots. 

They haven’t built their relationship through action and experience, and it makes Mickey nervous when he looks at the rest of Ian’s tagged photos--him with his family, him with his coworkers--and sees that they have _lives_ with him. He likes them, and he learned that he liked them through the fun they had together.

What if Mickey’s just a fun time through text? What if the limited scope of their interactions is where Mickey somehow shines--all the bits of his personality coalescing into something attractive to Ian through texting and phone calls and video chat.

Mickey doesn’t have a single interesting thing about him.

And they were awkward as fuck in person--so much that even Ian commented on it. What if they just don’t _work_ in reality?

He doesn’t finish the mac and cheese.

He dumps it, and he grabs a beer, and he drinks it while contemplating sending a text.

The deeper he gets into the beer, the more appealing it seems. Shrugging to himself, he grabs his phone and pulls up iMessage.

He sees Ian’s in-person text and smiles. Stupid motherfucker.

And it distracts him, but it doesn’t redirect him. He tap-tap-taps his fingers against the sides of his phone and then types the message.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (7:01 PM):** What if we’re not like compatible or whatever

\-------------------------------------------------------

Ian must be on his phone because the dancing dots show up almost immediately. Mickey holds his breath.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (7:02 PM):** Compatible how?

\-------------------------------------------------------

He’s walked into this, really. There’s about to be a discussion, and Mickey’s started it. He bites his lip and replies.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (7:03 PM):** I dunno, man. We’ve just never been around each other so how do we know

\-------------------------------------------------------

Ian FaceTimes him then, and Mickey only worries his lips for a moment before accepting the call.

And it’s weird to be doing this at this time, when it’s still light outside, when Mickey doesn’t even have the lamps on yet, the outside light plenty bright enough to illuminate his apartment.

“You okay?” Ian asks immediately. He’s sitting in his own living room, and he’s wearing a gray tank-top. His face is soft, and he looks concerned, mouth gently downturned in a frown.

Mickey sighs. Runs a hand over his face. “Yeah, man. I’m good.”

Ian just stares at him, waiting.

He sniffs. Yeah, okay. Whatever. “We’ve just never done shit together in real life like most people do when they’re like.” He waves a hand around. “I dunno. And shit was so awkward today, and I’m just wonderin’ if we’ll even be like, interested in each other in real life.”

It sort of hurts Mickey’s stomach a little when Ian doesn’t immediately brush off the idea as fuckin’ stupid. Instead, he looks thoughtful, and he purses his lips and tilts his head against his bent arm, which is resting--elbow down--on the armrest of his couch.

“Shit was definitely awkward today,” he says, tone even. “But that was because I wasn’t expecting to run into you. I was fuckin’ surprised, man.”

Mickey _hm_ s, and Ian continues.

“But I was so fuckin’ _happy_ to see you, Mickey. You have no idea.” He lowers his voice, and his eyes dart away slowly, then back, as if with nerves. “I _loved_ seeing you. I’ve been thinkin’ about it all day since then.”

Mickey takes a deep breath through his nose, in and out, slowly. And he stares at him, eyes wandering all over his face, examining how fuckin’ beautiful he is, his heart giving a squeeze when he thinks about that face in person. How he had looked _up_ into it, had been close enough to see his ginger eyelashes, to see a small patch of shave burn at the edge of his jaw.

He stares, and he stares, and he whispers, “I got nothin’ to give you, man,” and that’s just the thing, isn’t it? 

Mickey wants him desperately. 

Thinking that he can have him, though, and that it’ll be uncomplicated and mutually fulfilling and that they’ll just have fun together every day, and that Mickey’s _allowed_ to have that, _deserves_ to have that, _can_ have something so normal and something so good and so real and so _right_ seems impossible.

But there’ve been a lot of impossible things happening for him lately. He has a fucking friend, and he’s got someone older than him who maybe cares about him like a son, and he’s got a cat that likes him and a reputation at work and an apartment that he’s starting to feel really, really good about.

And he _wants a fucking boyfriend_.

His stomach twists at the thought.

When he tells Ian that he’s got nothin’ to give him, Ian’s face does the opposite of what it did earlier when he brought up the awkwardness of their encounter.

He _doesn’t_ look thoughtful, and he doesn’t look nervous.

Immediately, he lowers his eyebrows. “Mickey, shut up,” he says, and he sounds annoyed, even, like Mickey’s just said the _dumbest_ thing he could possibly say.

Mickey works his mouth a little but doesn’t say anything. Ian rolls his eyes.

“You’ve got nothin’ to give me?”

“I don’t _do_ shit, man. I’m like, fuckin’ _boring_ and I’m fuckin’ home all day on the weekends, and.” He blows out a breath, eyes darting everywhere, focusing on anything and everything but Ian’s face.

“Oh, because _I’ve_ got so much goin’ on right now?” Ian laughs humorlessly and scratches at the back of his neck. “Mick.”

Mickey looks at him then. Raises an eyebrow.

“You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in _years_ , you fuckin’ idiot.” He swallows, and his face softens, lips parting, breath coming out in a little rush. “I’ve got my _list_ , man. And there’s just like, so much shit I want, and I don’t even mean just sex stuff. There’s _so much shit_ that I don’t do, that I’ve never done, and I just wanna experience it all with you.”

Mickey closes his eyes for several seconds, and he _knows_ Ian can see him, knows he can tell what he’s feeling in that moment. Knows he can tell Mickey’s stomach’s twisting, that he’s fuckin’ overwhelmed.

“Y’know,” Ian says, voice so, so gentle like it gets when they’re in the dark. “We’re allowed to learn stuff together. You don’t have to be a fuckin’ man about town to _interest_ me. For that matter, what the hell do you see in me?”

 _Everything_ is what Mickey wants to say.

But Ian’s not done. He leaves hardly a breath following his question. 

“So maybe we’re two boring as fuck dudes raised in the Southside with shitty parents and self-esteem issues. Maybe we don’t know how to be normal. 

But let’s just _do shit_ together. Let’s fuckin’...” He leans backward, head resting against the couch back, and blows out a breath. “Let’s do fun shit and learn how to like, be with somebody. No pressure. ‘Cause unless I haven’t made myself clear enough, man, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doin’, either.”

Mickey bites at the corner of his bottom lip and just looks at Ian’s face, sees his sincerity and his frustration and his kindness.

He blinks, and he blinks, and he just says, “You can shut the fuck up, too.”

Ian raises an eyebrow. “Hm?”

“You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in my entire pathetic fuckin’ life.”

And Mickey isn’t imagining it when he sees Ian’s eyes fill at that. He looks away and blinks quickly like it didn’t happen, pushing them back, but Mickey sees it.

They stare at each other for the longest time then, eyes wandering over one another's faces, mouths open, breathing, breathing, breathing.

Mickey feels the moment shift, tilt, tip--feels the clench in his gut when Ian's eyes land on his for a long, poignant moment.

“You wanna maybe, um,” Ian starts, taking a second to bite his lip. “I dunno. I just.” He breathes. “I wanna make you feel good.”

Mickey looks at him, and he nods slowly, and he loves him.

“Yeah,” he says, a breath.

And his stomach _twists_ as he climbs off the couch and goes to his bedroom. He sets the phone down, and he pulls off his shirt and his boxers and lies down on his bed, head resting on his pillow.

It takes a second for Ian to reappear on the phone screen after he’d put it down to undress himself, but once he does, Mickey sees that he’s angled differently than usual.

He’s got the phone on his pillow, it looks like, and he’s hovering above it, Mickey getting a view from below. The longer strands of hair on top of Ian’s head are falling down, and he’s breathing with his mouth open as he shifts around to get comfortable.

And it occurs to Mickey, as he reaches a hand down to himself, that this might be what it’d look like if they were fucking, and well. He runs his curled fingers up and down the shaft of his cock, feeling himself slowly, slowly getting hard, and he looks up into Ian’s face and breathes raggedly out his nose and _thinks about him_.

Ian smiles at him then, this sweet, closed-mouth thing, and murmurs, breath a little quick, “You looked cute as fuck in your uniform, by the way.”

And _fuck_ , they’re jerking off together and Ian’s staying stupid shit like that, and Mickey can’t help but smile back.

“Shut up,” he says, darting his eyes around. 

Ian chuckles and dips his head, causing his hair to just hang like a curtain above the phone. He pauses for a second and tries to sweep it back, but a few errant strands escape his ministrations, anyway. 

“Dammit,” he says, frustrated, and Mickey feels a little bubble of laughter surge up from his belly. 

He _snorts_ , and then Ian’s dropping down like the arm holding up his body’s given out, and the two of them are _losing their shit_.

“Bitch, this ain’t even funny,” Mickey observes, stroking himself a little faster just because--just because it feels good, this dual-sensation, the slowly-building arousal and the light, happy feeling in his belly and his chest.

“Can we please just,” Ian starts, pausing to shove back up on his arm and getting his hand down to start jerking off again. “Can we please just discuss what it’s gonna be like when we’re actually having sex?”

Mickey blows out a breath, and it’s not subtle, really, the sound loud in his otherwise quiet bedroom.

“What d’you mean?” And talking like this during a sexual situation _should_ be a turn-off, but it decidedly isn’t. Mickey feels the blood continuing to fill out his cock, starts feeling just a touch of moisture at the tip as he watches Ian’s face and listens to his voice as he struggles through his sentences.

“I _mean_ that I’m already a little worried about coming like, the second I enter your body.” And Ian makes that kick-in-the-back _uh_ sound, then, and squeezes his eyes shut for a second. “So I can’t imagine what us _laughing_ ’s gonna do to me. Probably gonna fuckin’ explode.”

Mickey feels a twitch in his cock, a squeeze in his chest, and a twist in his gut, and his breathing speeds.

 _Jesus Christ_ , he’s talking about this. 

He’s talking about entering his body. 

And Ian saw Mickey in real life today, and he stood two feet away from him, and it was awkward as fuck and yet he still, _still_ wants to have sex with him. Worries about coming too quickly during it, even.

 _Fuck_.

Mickey’s getting that weird, romance-arousal feeling again, the warmth in his stomach combined with the white-hot pressure inside him, the tingles in his cock, and there’s a surge of pre-come that beads out of him at that. Mickey bites his lip and rubs the fluid over the head and down the shaft, slicking himself up.

Ian’s watching his face, and when Mickey starts biting at his lip, he makes that _uh_ sound again, and Mickey thinks he might actually die when this is for real, when Ian’s inside him--that huge, heavy, delicious pressure he’s starting to learn from the dildo--when he’s _thrusting_ and breathing and making that goddamn _noise_. 

When he’s _kissing him_.

“Yeah,” Mickey forces out, speeding up his strokes. “I think the first time’s gonna take like, two minutes.”

“Bein’ kinda generous, man.” Ian smiles, and he’s got this dazed look on his face like he’s feeling good. “I’m gonna come inside you in like, four seconds.”

“Oh, fuck. Shut up.” Mickey squeezes his eyes shut and just jerks at himself, hard, already starting to feel the tingles at the base of his spine.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good, Mickey.”

“Already feelin’ _way_ too good right now,” Mickey answers in a murmur, moving his hand off his cock and panting.

“When we have sex, do you want me to suck your dick before I get inside you?”

He’s gonna fuckin’ lose it.

Mickey opens his eyes for a second and looks down, watching a thick, viscous string of pre-come drop onto his lower belly. His cock _jerks_.

 _Fuck_.

And _goddammit_ , Gallagher, Ian just keeps talking. And he’s losing it himself a little bit, too, his speech coming out in stops and starts, punctuated by pants and gasps.

“Might eat your ass if you’re.” He breathes. “If you’re okay with it.” Squeezes his eyes shut.

There’s something about it that makes Mickey _wild_.

“Holy fuck, Ian. _Jesus_.”

He squeezes the base of his dick, tryin’ his fuckin’ best to hold it back, the pressure steadily building inside him like a dam about to burst.

“ _Fuck_ , Mickey.” He’s looking at him again, eyes crossing just a little with pleasure. “Stop blushing.”

“Stop bein’ so fuckin’...” Mickey clenches his jaw and sucks in air through his teeth in a _sssss_. 

“Stop bein’ so what?”

And really, he’s done holding back.

“Stop bein’ so fuckin’ hot. I’m gonna come.”

Ian starts moving differently, then, his body rocking back and forth in a clear thrusting motion, and it occurs to Mickey that he’s fucking his fist. He hears his mattress squeak in a rhythmic pattern.

“You dick,” Ian says, panting hard through a smile. “ _Fuck_.”

Mickey laughs then, puts his hand back on his cock for a few quick, steady strokes, and yeah, yeah, yeah, that feels fuckin’ _great_.

And Ian’s thrusting harder, so, so clearly on the edge, his breaths coming with more and more force.

“Your bed’s fuckin’ loud,” Mickey murmurs, anything, anything to keep him from going off like a firecracker. His cock’s slick in his hand, and there are cooling pre-come drips in his pubes that brush against his thumb on every downstroke.

Ian pauses. Laughs. “It’s outta practice. Don’t get much action.”

Mickey chuckles at that, breathily, and slides his fingers down to rub at his balls, to touch at his asshole.

Ian must notice that he’s leaned up a little, bending himself forward more than usual, as he lets out this full-voiced “ _ah_ ” and asks, thrusts stopped but arm clearly jerking himself off quickly, “Are you fingering yourself?”

“No, shut up,” Mickey whispers quickly, just touching, touching, rubbing the pads of his fingers against his entrance. He’d have to get the lube to actually go inside, and well. He’s too far along to stall it for that.

Ian _mm_ s and thrusts a bit. “Okay,” he murmurs, clearly not buyin’ a fuckin’ thing. He smiles, and the rhythm of the mattress squeaks speed.

Mickey pulls his hand back to his dick and starts up the steady, even pace that he knows will get him there.

Together, they bring themselves to the brink, quieting down their chatter and, instead, focusing on sensations and breaths and _looks_. Ian’s got his eyes on him, watching his face with an intensity that squeezes Mickey’s stomach, sends that romance-arousal surge through his body in such a way that causes him to almost lose it.

He pulls his hand from his cock for just long enough to stave off the orgasm, then brings it back, pace slower.

They’re getting gentle, now, as Ian looks at him, and suddenly, their discussion from before all this comes back to Mickey’s mind. He thinks about how Ian wants to try things with him, wants to learn with him, wants to _make him feel good_.

And fuck if he doesn’t want all that shit, too. Even the embarrassing shit. Even the fuckin’ dancing and the dates and the sharing a tub of popcorn at the movies. 

Mickey watches Ian, watches him start to gasp, and for such a talk-filled session, things are awfully quiet now as they begin to shake apart.

Ian’s got his mouth open, and his hair’s fallen fully forward again, hanging above the phone so Mickey’s peering at his face as if from below a curtain. “Gonna come in a second,” he whispers, all breath, then punches out that “ _uh_ ” of his.

Mickey nods, hand speeding. He bites his lip and breathes harshly out his nose.

It’s building now, now, and Mickey tries to breathe through it. He squeezes his eyes shut, releases his lip from his teeth, and sucks in air in long, slow streams.

“Me too,” he murmurs, then gets back to his breathing, and he hears Ian make a desperate sound, like he’s grasping, grasping.

It builds and builds, and then yes, there, there, now, it hits Mickey _hard_. 

“Oh fuck,” he pushes out, moving his hand faster and faster throughout the sharp edge of it. “Ian. Fuck, fuck.”

And he’s said his fucking _name_ during orgasm, and if Mickey weren’t _throbbing_ with hot, wet pleasure, he’d think to be embarrassed about it.

But then Ian says it back, whispers “Oh-God-Mickey,” all one word as he comes, and Mickey squeezes his eyes shut so tightly that he sees white, feeling nothing but warmth and happiness and affection.

\---

He opens his eyes for the first time in a few minutes once he’s coming down, breathing hard. His arm’s sore from holding up the phone, so he tilts over onto his side and rests his arm out in front of him, instead.

He’s got come on his belly, and he’s maybe getting a little of it on his sheets, but fuck it, they can be washed. All he cares about right now is Ian’s sweaty, red face and the freckles he can see on his eyelids when he blinks slowly, clearly being affected by pleasure hormones.

Ian _hm_ s and rolls off to the side, onto his back.

And they spend a good two, three minutes just staring at each other and getting their breath back.

“So we doin’ this, Milkovich?” Ian asks after a few minutes, voice gentle.

Mickey closes his eyes for a moment, taking the opportunity to breathe deeply. 

He knows what he’s asking. He’s asking, “You wanna try together? Learn together?”

Mickey wants him more than anything he’s ever wanted in his life.

“Guess so,” he replies, opening his eyes and peering at Ian, who just looks so, so fucking affectionate.

Ian nods at him, and then his eyes dart away and back, like he’s nervous. He presses his lips together into a straight line before taking a deep breath. “You free Saturday?”

Mickey’s heart pounds, thump-thump pounds, exaggerated, leaving-his-chest-cavity cartoon shit pounds.

“Yeah.”

“You wanna maybe.” Ian sucks on his lip for a second. “Hang out? With me?”

Mickey blows out a breath. “Hang out?”

“Yeah. Like, no pressure or anything. I dunno. We can meet for lunch, maybe? Go from there?”

Fuck it. Yeah. Yeah.

“Yeah,” Mickey says, rubbing a hand across his face. He smiles. “But if it’s as awkward as today, I’m walkin’ out.”

Ian laughs through his nose. “If it’s as awkward as today, I think we can just commit ourselves to jerking off over FaceTime forever.”

“Exciting.”

“Mm. FaceTime sex. FaceTime dating. FaceTime marriage. Have a couple FaceTime kids.”

Mickey groans. “Too far, ya weird motherfucker.”

But his heart’s pounding again because, well. He’s definitely talking about pursuing something. About _dating_ Mickey.

Are they _dating_?

Is this what Saturday is?

Ian smiles, seemingly content. “Anyway. Be thinkin’ about what you wanna do Saturday. I’ve never been on a date I wasn’t gettin’ paid to be on, so I’m open to suggestions.”

There it is.

Mickey _breathes_.

“You know you’re talkin’ to _me_ , right?”

Ian studies Mickey’s face, pursing his lips and trailing his eyes up and down, from hairline to chin. “Yeah,” he says, soft like a whisper.

Mickey’s belly twists. He studies Ian back.

“You gonna kiss me?” Ian asks then, eyes on Mickey’s lips.

“What, like right now?”

Ian smirks. “Saturday.”

“I dunno, man.” Mickey shrugs. “Depends on how good a date you are.”

“Oh really? So, six and a half months of talkin’, a few weeks of FaceTime sex, not important. Just our date on Saturday, huh?”

“Yeah, man.”

“Cool, cool.”

“No pressure, though.” Mickey bites back a smile.

“Guess I’m gonna have to give you the date of your life, then, huh?” He narrows his eyes and pulls back the side of his mouth in a smirk.

Mickey runs his hand over his face and nods. Considers.

And well, if they’re doin’ this, then fuck it.

“Lucky for you,” he says, voice taking on a teasing lilt, “I’ve never been on a date. So it’s probably gonna be pretty simple to give me the date of my life.”

Ian’s smirk turns into an easy, natural smile, as if it’s been pulled from him without him even realizing. “So you’re sayin’ that we’re probably gonna kiss on Saturday.”

Mickey smiles back. “Like I said. Depends on the quality of the date. You can’t fuck it up, Gallagher.” Pause. “No pressure.”

“ _Now_ you’re just gonna make me nervous.”

“Good.”

They challenge each other with narrowed eyes, staring.

Mickey’s the first to break this time, face cracking in a wide grin that shows his teeth and sending Ian into a grin of his own.

And though they tend to hang on at the end of their conversations, talking and talking and really struggling with actually leaving each other alone, they always have an excuse to say goodbye when it’s one-thirty in the morning and they have to wake up in five hours.

Mickey checks the clock this time, and it’s only seven-fifty.

As if reading his mind, Ian asks, “You eat yet?”

He thinks about his few pathetic bites of mac and cheese and shrugs. “Might order a pizza,” he says, rubbing at his belly.

“Dinner together, then?”

Mickey smiles. “Yeah.”

And they _do_ hang up--for a while, at least, the two of them cleaning up and taking care of their food situations on their own.

Mickey calls Ian back at eight-forty, and they eat together and laugh together and they even both break out joints from their weed stashes and smoke together while idly watching and making fun of _The Bachelor_ on their own TVs.

And well, Mickey could get used to this.

He could get used to nights of talking, nights of Ian.

Nights of learning to cook with him, dancing with him in the kitchen, maybe, talking to him about work, seeing him play with Jovi, watching and touching and kissing his sweet, freckly face.

He goes to bed that night--after their banter had finally slowed, after Mickey’d told Ian to go to sleep, after they’d stared at each other for a while in the dim light of their living rooms and thought about kissing each other--and he smiles into the darkness, and he rubs at his twisting, twisting belly, and he thinks to himself, _Fuck. Fuck._

Because when it comes down to it, Mickey never thought he’d be in this situation. 

As a teenager living in the Milkovich House of Horrors, doing what he could when he could in order to fuckin’ survive, he never once saw himself happy. Never once saw himself maybe with a boyfriend, or at least the beginnings of one. Never once saw himself happy and healthy and wanting something steady and solid and _normal_.

Mickey Milkovich, son of Terry Milkovich, dirty-faced, FUCK U-UP knuckled, in-and-out of juvie, drug-running, high school dropout, kick your ass as soon as speak to you, lowlife piece of Southside trash is in love.

And it’s the kind of feeling that sinks in his chest, that settles in somewhere between his ribs and hangs on to what it can. The kind of feeling that he carries with him, the kind of feeling that he’s got just under the surface at every moment of every day.

The kind of feeling that for once, for once, for once in his entire goddamn life, makes him think that he might just be okay after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fun facts for Chapter 12:  
> -Just to confirm, Ian didn’t know it was Mickey when he touched his back and asked him to move out of the way. Mickey would’ve been completely in the clear if he’d never said anything to Ian about it ever. We’re glad he did.
> 
> -I based Mickey’s apartment building on the [14th Ward Industrial School](https://untappedcities-wpengine.netdna-ssl.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/07/Leica-3191.jpg) in Nolita, NYC. It doesn’t look _exactly_ like this--as it wouldn’t, being in/near the Southside of Chicago--and it’s shorter (3 stories), but I had it in mind as I wrote. Historically, this building was a school run by the Children’s Aid Society. Currently, it is a four-unit apartment building. And side fun fact: the orphanage in _Annie_ was partly inspired by this building.
> 
> -Speaking of apartments! [Here](https://images.homedepot-static.com/productImages/64ea3a95-4302-4fb0-b424-fe9fbc794052/svn/molten-black-behr-paint-colors-393001-1d_1000.jpg) is Molten Black, which is the color Mickey paints his cabinets. [Here](https://society6.com/product/fuck-you-skeleton-middle-finger652778_framed-mini-art-print?sku=s6-7473810p114a265v872a266v876) is the Society6 print, which _is_ actually on sale! [Here](https://i5.walmartimages.com/asr/8d153885-ef23-4d9f-8038-588f9f3b1f3e_1.6bb92d2151457c110000783c2ec1f5a2.jpeg?odnWidth=612&odnHeight=612&odnBg=ffffff) is Mickey’s new bed-in-a-bag set. And unfortunately, the Target items are made up, so I don’t have reference pictures.
> 
> -In light of the fact that Mickey is redesigning his apartment _and also_ was, for six months, paying for a subscription service, I do want to say that he actually can afford everything he’s paid for so far. He’s paid $1,800 per month, after taxes, has low--if any--debt, probably doesn’t spend much on groceries due to Mrs. C. cooking for him so often, and even after paying utilities, CTA pass fees, Internet, phone bills, etc., should have a few hundred left over every month that he puts in his savings. He was sort of eating into those leftovers while he was paying for the Gold Package, but now that he isn’t, he has plenty of money left over to buy paint and home decor. Just wanted to make a note of this so you guys don’t think Mickey somehow has an unrealistic amount of money for what he earns. He’s just responsible with what he does have, is nearly debt free, budgets appropriately, and has a really, really good deal on his rent due to his landlady being a goddess.
> 
> -I want to thank all_lovefisher_ on Twitter for this _amazing_ artwork that goes with Chapter 7. [Please check it out here.](https://twitter.com/all_lovefisher_/status/1262883219772518400?s=20) I can’t stop looking at it!
> 
> I love you guys so, so much! I can’t even explain to you the amount of joy that has been brought into my life through my interactions with you all. I’m a lucky, lucky girl to have received such kindness.
> 
> I’m going to try my absolute best to have an update Wednesday. This isn’t a spoiler, but the chapters from here on out, while still having _some_ texting, will have much more in-person interaction, and that does tend to take me longer to write. I’ll keep you guys updated. In the event that I don’t make Wednesday, I would post the next chapter whenever I had it ready (Thursday, etc.).
> 
> Thank you again. I hope you’re all doing well and staying safe. ❤️️👍
> 
> Gray // [gallavichy](http://gallavichy.tumblr.com) // @GrayolaSays


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian and Mickey have their first in-person date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which impossible things happen.
> 
> I just love you all so much. Thank you for being such a light to me. I hope you enjoy reading about these sweet, nervous boys on their first date.

When Mickey was twelve, kissing was all anyone at school ever talked about. Who was kissing who, who _wanted_ to kiss who, who’d never been kissed, who was a good kisser, a bad kisser, a _wet_ kisser. 

He didn’t have many friends to speak of, so there was never really any competition amongst him and any classmates. He didn’t have anyone to compare himself to, anyone to one-up or brag to or ask for advice besides his cousins and Iggy and Colin, and they’d been doin’ gross shit with girls since sixth grade and any advice they’d give was literally, “Just go up to a girl and ask if she wants to bang, dude.”

He thought kissing was a little stupid, really. He got the interest in fucking, sure, but why would you wanna suck face with somebody while doing it? Maybe if you _liked_ them, but in what universe was Mickey Milkovich gonna find someone to have sex with that he _liked_?

As a kid, it seemed impossible. It seemed equivalent to the idea that he was gonna grow up to be President of the United States or win a million dollars or own a fuckin’ mansion in Lincoln Park.

When he got a little older, he would sit in his bed with his door closed flipping through gun magazines, looking at the muscular men, thinking about his family and the girls Iggy and Colin banged and the boy Mandy got suspended for blowing in the non-fiction section of the school library. 

He would think about having someone for himself. 

He would think about how he would never ever in a million years be able to be with someone he liked. 

He could fuck someone, sure--could sneak over to Boystown or the park at night, maybe, and get somebody to bang him behind a building or blow him as he leaned back against a tree in the shadowed dark. 

And well, the idea was _fine_. And it’s not like he really gave a shit about falling in love or having a boyfriend or being anything but the youngest Milkovich boy, the latest inductee into the Cook County Juvenile Detention Center. 

But the thought that it was literally _impossible_ for him to have that--if he _did_ want it--made his guts go a little cold.

Because the bottom line was that Mickey Milkovich liked boys, and if he was ever gonna kiss someone for real, ever gonna like someone for real, it could only ever _be_ a boy. And yet he knew as much as he knew anything that his dad would beat him into a state of unconsciousness, would fucking _kill him_ maybe, if he ever did, if he was ever caught.

He accepted early on that _like_ , that _kissing_ , that _love_ for him was always going to come with violence.

And when you’re a teenager with all the same hormones coursing through your body as every other teenager, but you’re thinking about _boys_ in the dark of your bedroom as your hand slides inside your boxers, it can only ever hurt, really, to know with absolute certainty that you may be able to have hard, dirty fucks in secret but you’ll never be able to have gentleness. Never be able to hold the hand of the person you _like_. Never be able to kiss them. 

Never be able to be happy and in love.

Never be able to be _free_.

And when you can’t have that, have no hope of that, the only alternative is to have nothing. But in Mickey’s world, having nothing is as strange as being queer--is _suspicious_ , really.

So at seventeen, Mickey had sex a handful of times with two neighborhood twenty-something women in order to keep up appearances.

They tried to be gentle with him on occasion, and they tried to kiss him a little bit, and he shoved them off and shook his head and said, “I don’t do that.” 

Because he didn’t do that. He didn’t do gentleness and he didn’t do kissing because that was the only bit of nothing he was able to cling to. It was the only thing he could hold close to him in order to keep himself from hating every single little thing about his dirty body, his dirty mind, his dirty heart, and its dirty, shameful desires.

Nine years later, though, he’s going to do that.

Mickey Milkovich is going to kiss a boy, and he’s going to kiss him because he likes him, because he loves him, because he’s starting to believe that maybe, just maybe, impossible things can happen to a kid who never knew of anything better.

And these impossible things are _allowed_ to happen to him and he doesn’t have to fucking hide them. He doesn’t have to feel dirty, and he doesn’t have to feel ashamed.

Everybody who would’ve given a fuck when he was sixteen is either dead or out of the picture. Mandy was kind when he came out to her at twenty, and he really doesn’t care what Iggy and Colin think, if he’s honest, but he suspects they wouldn’t give more of a shit than it would take to rag on him for a while before moving on. 

Because really, his older siblings aren’t the worst things in the world. They grew up in fear like he did, even if the result of that fear was different for them than it was for him and Mandy.

Mickey and Mandy, the little Milkoviches. 

The ones who were too small to leave the house when Terry did horrible things to their mother, when he would drink and yell and hit and make a little black-haired boy and a little black-haired girl grasp desperately at each other’s sweaty hands and try to distract themselves with a picture book.

Mickey isn’t close with Mandy anymore--not since puberty, really--but he trusts her in the way that you trust people who know your past and how that past irrevocably impacts your life and your emotions. 

He’d trusted her with his secret at twenty, and she’d punched him in the shoulder for not telling her sooner but then had gone solemn when she’d realized. When she’d realized that he was an impossible boy in an impossible situation.

And now, six years later, he’s trusting her with Ian and with knowledge of their relationship. And though it makes him feel almost unbearably awkward to text with her about the situation, he figures that well, he doesn’t really have a valid reason not to--especially when Ian likes her and trusts her, too.

Especially when she knows the violence of love for a little Milkovich and, like Mickey, is also learning that once your psychotic son of a bitch father's been shanked in prison, impossible things don’t always have to be impossible.

\---  
\---

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mandy (9:15 AM):** a little birdy may have texted me last night 

**Mandy (9:15 AM):** seems somebody has a date on saturday

\-------------------------------------------------------

It’s Wednesday morning--two days after the Monday that changed everything--and Mickey’s just made it back from his initial loop around the mall to grab breakfast and to check for any pre-opening issues.

And _goddammit_ , Gallagher. Why’s he gotta be friends with his sister?

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (9:16 AM):** The little birdy talks a lot

 **Mandy (9:16 AM):** the little birdy likes you so much mick and if you fuck it up with him i will kill you 🔪

 **Mickey (9:17 AM):** As my sister, aren’t you supposed to say that shit to him, not me

 **Mandy (9:17 AM):** i will kill you

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey rolls his eyes and shoves his way into the security office.

Sean’s at the coffee station, setting up the new Keurig with a K-Cup holder that their supervisor had scored for them, and Mickey very pointedly ignores him as he walks past in order to get to the CCTV Control Room, where he plans to park his ass for the next twenty minutes while he eats his breakfast burrito.

Once in the room, he sets down his to-go bag and has a seat in the leather office chair.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (9:19 AM):** I’m not planning to fuck it up with him so you can calm your tits 🖕

 **Mandy (9:20 AM):** he’s excited

 **Mandy (9:20 AM):** and nervous

 **Mandy (9:20 AM):** so be good to him 

**Mickey (9:21 AM):** In that case I guess I’ll scrap my plans of mayhem

 **Mandy (9:22 AM):** do you love him

\-------------------------------------------------------

He’s in the process of unwrapping his burrito when she sends it, and Mickey sighs and sets it back down on the table.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (9:23 AM):** Fuck off. None of this is any of your business

 **Mandy (9:23 AM):** ooookay 

**Mandy (9:23 AM):** that definitely wasn’t a no

 **Mickey (9:24 AM):** 🖕

 **Mandy (9:24 AM):** also not a no

\-------------------------------------------------------

And really, Mickey can see why she and Ian like each other so much.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (9:25 AM):** Stop bein so annoying. Don’t you got a job

 **Mandy (9:25 AM):** and not 1 no to be found

 **Mickey (9:25 AM):** 🖕🖕🖕

 **Mandy (9:26 AM):** just don’t be an asshole to him mickey

 **Mandy (9:26 AM):** let him know you care

 **Mandy (9:26 AM):** he’s been through some shit and for some reason he thinks you’re the best thing he’s ever had

 **Mickey (9:27 AM):** Whatever

\-------------------------------------------------------

He sits with it for a moment. Contemplates. Picks up his burrito, takes a bite, and sets it back down.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (9:28 AM):** Don’t worry

 **Mickey (9:28 AM):** He’s the last person I want to be an asshole to

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey chews his burrito, tap-tap-taps his fingers against the sides of his phone, and, after a deep breath, types more.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (9:29 AM):** I want him to be happy

 **Mandy (9:30 AM):** good

 **Mandy (9:30 AM):** he deserves to be happy

 **Mandy (9:30 AM):** and so do you

\-------------------------------------------------------

\---

“Stop talking to my sister,” Mickey says over FaceTime that night, mouth so full of chicken from his KFC drumstick that his words come out all muffled. There’s no heat in his words, though, and he mostly just wants to bring it up to make Ian flustered.

Ian’s wearing only a pair of black boxer briefs as he eats his own dinner--a take-out taco bowl--and he looks hot as fuck sitting up on the countertop, legs swinging, holding a styrofoam container in one hand and a fork in the other.

Dinner together’s apparently a thing now. It makes Mickey’s stomach twist to think of it.

Ian swallows his most recent bite and makes a face. “She’s my friend, asshole.”

“She gave me the ‘break his heart and I’ll kill you’ speech today.”

“Oh yeah?”

Mickey nods and takes another bite of his chicken. “So my plans to break your heart are on hold for now, man.”

He’d meant it to be a little flirty, but his mouth’s full again, so it sounds fuckin’ stupid.

Ian smirks. “Glad to hear it. Mandy’s kinda scary, though, so you might wanna put it on hold for a _while_.”

Mickey shrugs. “Maybe.”

He grabs another piece of chicken from the bucket and pulls off the skin, inelegantly cramming it in his mouth.

“Have I told you lately how sexy you are when you eat?”

Mickey flips him off.

They finish their dinner more or less without any conversations of importance. Ian complains about the extraordinary heat of the day and his apartment’s insufficient A/C unit, prompting the underwear-only attire, and Mickey acts exaggeratedly sympathetic and spends a lot of time staring at his dick.

It’s only later, when they’re settled on their couches and drinking--a beer for Mickey and a pop for Ian--that Ian brings up Mandy again.

“So, what all did Mandy tell you?”

He looks nervous, and he keeps playing with the cap of his Coke, unscrewing and rescrewing it over and over again.

Mickey smirks. “I think she used the phrases ‘undying devotion’ and ‘obsessed with you.’ But other than that, not much, man.”

Ian flips him off with the hand holding his drink bottle. 

Mickey smiles at him, and the moment settles a little. “I dunno,” he says, pausing for a moment to take a long pull off his beer. “She’s Mandy.”

“I don’t tell her details,” Ian says, scratching at the Coke bottle label with his thumb. “That stuff’s private and just between us.”

And Mickey’s stomach twists a bit at the idea that he and Ian have things between them that are private, that they only share with each other--a cocoon surrounding their relationship, keeping them warm and cozy and together.

It’s a different kind of secret than the ones he thought he’d have with boys when he was a kid. Not, “You can’t tell anyone or we’re fuckin’ dead,” not _fear_ , but “We have an intimate relationship, and there are some things that only we need to know.” Togetherness.

After a pause, Ian continues. “I just tell her highlights. She doesn’t know about the app or anything.” He opens his drink, takes a sip, and wipes his mouth off with his knuckle. “I can stop, though, if it makes you uncomfortable.”

And the thing about it is that yeah, it does make him a little uncomfortable. It’s fuckin’ weird, this understanding that Ian talks to his sister about him, that he talks to her about _liking him_ , that he tells her about a date they’re gonna have and that he’s _excited_ and that he’s _nervous_.

But more than anything, he trusts Ian. And he trusts Mandy in the way that an older brother would trust a younger sister, and he trusts her because she was also a little Milkovich, and well. _Everybody who would’ve given a fuck when he was sixteen is either dead or out of the picture_ , and Ian keeps the details private, _just between them_ , and y’know, sometimes hearing an outsider’s perspective ain’t the worst thing in the world.

Mickey shrugs. “Whatever, man,” he says, letting Ian interpret that how he wants. He takes a drink of his beer. 

Ian _hm_ s and smiles, something devious working its way into his eyes. “Don’t worry,” he assures, tone light. “I won’t tell her about making out with you on Saturday.”

“Oh, so we’re making out now? I believe I said I _might_ kiss you if you’re a good date.” Mickey bites his lip, trying to hold back a smile that’s threatening to break across his face.

“I mean, I’m gonna take what I can get.” Ian huffs a laugh, though he keeps his face serious, thoughtful. “But I have to admit that there’s a certain appeal to it.”

Mickey’s face flames up and his breath shallows to the point that he sounds out of breath when he speaks. “Yeah, whatever. I’ll remind you of this when we’re awkwardly staring at each other on Saturday.”

Ian smiles--sweet, sweet. “Can’t wait.”

And that’s just the thing, really. They talk, and they flirt, but who knows what’s actually going to happen on Saturday.

Mickey’s stomach twists into knots when he thinks about it--when he thinks about the fact that he’s gonna be spending _hours_ with Ian, and that they might _kiss_ and they might _touch_. Ian might get his tongue in his mouth, and well. _That_ ’s something to think about when he’s not on a fuckin’ FaceTime call with him.

He looks at Ian, traces every centimeter of his face, and he thinks about the texture of his skin, the feel of his stubble, the softness of his lips.

Mickey knows he’s blushing still, and as he looks into Ian’s eyes, he knows that Ian’s thinking about it, thinking about commenting on it, but he doesn’t this time. He just smiles knowingly and drinks his Coke.

They spend the rest of their conversation making concrete plans. It’s decided that they’ll meet for a late lunch or early dinner on Saturday at a great burger place within walking distance from Mickey’s apartment. 

“And we can just see where it goes from there?” Ian suggests, and Mickey wonders if he’s thinking about sex. Wonders if this is a suggestion of, “Let’s not make any more plans because we may find we just wanna bang each other to death.”

His heart pounds. Palms sweat. Idly, he wonders whether he should buy condoms.

Ian’ll have them surely, but what if they end up here? After all, the diner’s close enough that Mickey jogs past it on a regular basis, and it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to imagine that if they _were_ gonna forego the remainder of the traditional date in favor of fucking, they could go somewhere nearby to do it.

Mickey hasn’t owned a box of condoms since he was seventeen. It’s fucking sad.

Ian must misread his pensive expression as worry, and well, maybe it is. Maybe he’s reading Mickey exactly correctly. He smiles gently and says, “No pressure. Really. I know I was joking about making out with you, and I’d _love to_ , Mick.” He shrugs a little. Bites his lip for a second. “But we don’t even have to kiss if you’re not feelin’ it. I just wanna be around you.”

Mickey takes a deep breath. 

And he wants to say _Why are you so fuckin’ nice to me?_ , and he wants to say _Of course I’m feelin’ it, you stupid motherfucker_ , and he really wants to say _I can’t wait to taste your breath_. 

But what he says is, “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” And he tries to look a little annoyed by Ian’s gentleness, but Ian just smiles back, fucking _knowing_ like he always does. Looking like he wants to fucking kiss him.

\---

They end the night with a bit of playful jerking off, staying on their couches for it and filming just their dicks for each other. And they engage in a little bit of edging, laughing each time one of them reaches the brink and has to pull back.

It’s fun to do this, even if Mickey’s leaking like a goddamned faucet and even if Ian comments on it as he rubs his thumb against the head of his own cock.

“Do you even need to use lube?” he asks, out of breath, and he’s clearly turned on by it, as Mickey watches a bit of pre-come well up in his slit.

“Not usually,” Mickey answers, thinking about sucking Ian into his mouth.

And Mickey’s always thought he was a little bit weird, maybe, for getting like this. None of the dudes in porn seem to have as much as he does unless it’s a video specifically about that.

But the way Ian’s reacting, his breathing loud and uncontrolled, makes Mickey feel a little good about himself for once--makes him think that maybe it’s a positive thing to be such a fuckin’ leaker.

“Ah, fuck,” Ian murmurs, sounding resigned, and it pulls laughter out of Mickey because Ian’s coming now, and he’s coming _first_ , and he sounds so fuckin’ disappointed about the fact.

Mickey strokes himself faster and faster, hand making a slick, wet sound as it slides through the moisture on his cock, and he closes his eyes and lets himself go, as well, grunting out a “Fuck, fuck, fuck” with each intense pulse, his orgasm _hard_ due to the multiple attempts at holding it back.

And Mickey can’t help but gloat a little afterward, wiping off his belly with his T-shirt. 

“Thought you never come first, man,” he teases, finishing his wipe-down by blotting at his dick.

Ian just pants at him and holds up his middle finger. 

But he texts Mickey something stupidly sweet before bed, and it makes his stomach twist so much that he can’t help but think that Ian ended up with the upper hand, anyway.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (11:04 PM):** One thing I’m definitely not gonna miss about FaceTime sex is not being able to spend the time afterward hugging and kissing you.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Sappy, sappy bitch.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (11:05 PM):** Oh yeah?

 **Ian (11:05 PM):** Yeah.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey climbs into bed and pulls the covers up under his armpits. 

And he’s smiling when he sends it, and it feels good when he sends it, and maybe he’s a sappy, sappy bitch, too, for sending it.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (11:07 PM):** Guess I’ll allow it 🖤

\-------------------------------------------------------

Or maybe it’s just a side-effect of being in love.

\---  
\---

Mickey spends most of Saturday morning anxious as fuck.

They’d set their date for three o’clock so that they could both catch up on their sleep--the two of them often sleeping until noon--and though it’d seemed like a good idea at the time, Mickey’s pissed when it’s eight-thirty and he’s lying in bed, unable to sleep in anymore, knowing he has another six hours to go before it’s a reasonable time to leave his apartment.

He has a breakfast of scrambled eggs that he can barely force down, and then he spends as long as he can in the shower, washing himself in ways that he’s never washed himself before. 

It’s nearly eleven by the time he’s getting ready. He throws on his black jeans, black crew-neck, denim trucker jacket, and Timbs, and he spends longer on his hair than he would ever admit to sober.

And then he waits.

He waits around for a whole three fuckin’ hours because he’s an idiot. His stomach’s in fuckin’ _knots_ like nothing he’s ever experienced before.

He’s experienced all types of anxiety in his life, from that borne of fear to that borne of excitement, but he’s never once felt like he does right now. Like he’s a tethered balloon full of helium, wanting nothing more than to get away, float away, fly away. He’s got this lightness in his chest, this bubble that’s settled in somewhere near his heart, and it’s causing his breathing to shallow and his pulse to speed, and he’s got a faint sheen of sweat forming on his brow.

He reapplies his deodorant, his first application not having done a fuckin’ thing for the sweat, and then looks at himself in the bathroom mirror. He gently slaps at his face a bit, trying to break up some of the shakiness. Presses his palms over his eyes for a moment. And when he breathes his final sigh, it comes out all stuttered.

He’s gotta get a fuckin’ grip. _Jesus Christ_. Because surely, fuckin’ _surely_ this isn’t how normal people react to this shit. Who the fuck would ever do it, if they did?

And he has literally had FaceTime dinner and sex with Ian almost every night this week, and on Monday, Ian touched his lower back and touched his shoulder, and yet Mickey doesn’t know how he’s gonna survive sitting across from him at a table for an hour.

 _Fuck_.

He does one more loop through his apartment. 

Jovi’s stretched out on his bed, and when he sees Mickey coming, he gives a trill and twists around onto his back. 

“Wish me luck,” Mickey says, rubbing at his belly.

Jovi’s gotten to where he lets Mickey do it without immediately attacking, but he still tries not to push his luck, pulling back quickly and finishing with a scratch behind his ears.

Before he leaves his bedroom, Mickey eyes the nightstand drawer where he’s got a box of Magnums, some lube and, at the very, very back, where no one will find it unless they actually stick their arm in and reach for it, his dildo. 

And he doesn’t know why he’s thinking about this now because it ain’t doin’ shit but making him more and more nervous the more he considers.

He scrubs both hands down his face and turns to go.

\---  
\---

It’s about a twenty minute walk to the restaurant, and thank _fuck_ it’s a nice day. Sixty-five degrees. Sunny but not too bright.

Mickey listens to The Hives in order to get out some of his nervous energy and tries to pound into his mind the fact that he and Ian fucking _know_ each other. It ain’t like they’re complete strangers meeting for the first time.

He’s sent him two goddamn heart emojis for fuck’s sake.

And Mandy had said Ian was nervous, too.

They’re on the same page. _Same fuckin’ page_.

\---

The diner is nicer than a traditional greasy spoon but still has the vibe of a place you’d go to for hash browns and omelettes five days a week. They serve a little bit of everything but are famous for their burgers, which Mickey gets as take-out a few times a month. 

When he makes it to the entrance, he has to pause. He wipes his hands against the thighs of his jeans, wipes off that nervous sweat, and takes a deep breath. 

The moment of truth.

He bites his lip, puffs a quick in-out sigh through his nose, and opens the door.

\---

Mickey had sort of hoped that by being fifteen minutes early, Ian wouldn’t be there yet and he could take some time to sit down, compose himself, maybe wipe the fuckin’ sweat off his forehead with a napkin.

But-- _goddammit_ , Gallagher--Mickey spots him right away, sitting at a two-seater booth near the back.

He’s been there long enough to have already ordered and received his drink--a water in a clear plastic Coca-Cola tumbler--and he’s got his elbow up on the table, fist under his chin as he plays around on his phone.

And he’s fucking beautiful.

He’s got on dark wash jeans and a navy short-sleeve button-down with a subtle floral pattern open over a gray crew-neck, and his hair’s just about the hottest Mickey’s ever seen it--only partly back-combed, the front bit bending _just so_ over his forehead.

Ian doesn’t see him--won’t see him unless he looks toward the door--and Mickey takes a moment to just stare at him, to just _think about_ him in a way he wasn’t able to stare, to think the two other times he saw him in person.

He watches him idly take a drink of his water, his thumb scrolling down a page on his phone--probably Instagram--and he thinks about the way he might smell and the way he might taste and the sounds their bodies might make when they’re together.

And his _stomach hurts_ with worry. Because what if all of these thoughts Mickey’s been having, all of these gentle, gentle thoughts about being _allowed_ things, about being able to _have_ things were all for nought? 

What if it doesn’t _work_?

“Sir!” a young woman calls in a loud but friendly voice to Mickey’s right, immediately jerking him out of his daze. “You can sit wherever you like.”

And when Mickey looks back, eyes focusing in on his destination, he sees that the woman’s voice must have startled Ian as well, as he’s looking right at him.

Mickey’s heart creeps into his throat, pounding away, that same cartoon thump-thump that makes him feel like his chest cavity’s about to burst. 

He feels his skin heat, his eyes burn a little with it, and it feels like his fuckin’ bones have turned to a floppy, watery mush.

He exhales.

And then Ian smiles at him, and he stands from the booth, and there’s nothing in the entire fucking world that can hold Mickey back.

He walks toward him, and he bites at the corner of his lip, and Mickey Milkovich has never in his entire life felt so out of his depth and yet so _real_ , so light. So good.

When he reaches Ian, he pauses.

“Mickey,” Ian says, and it’s soft, and it’s sweet, and it’s everything he’d ever imagined. 

It’s all the impossible things.

He puts his hands on Mickey’s shoulders and squeezes twice in a massaging motion, then gives him a little shake--just one gentle pull forward and back. “Hi.”

Mickey breathes hard through his mouth, but he smiles, and he smiles, and he smiles, and he knows he’s blushing because Ian’s looking at him like he wants to kiss him.

He doesn’t, though. 

He smiles back, that sweet, closed-mouth one. 

He drops his hands from Mickey’s shoulders and climbs once more into the booth.

And it only now occurs to Mickey that he hasn’t yet said anything. His stomach gives an embarrassed twist at that, and he slides into his side of the booth while uttering a nervous, “Uh, hey.”

The booth’s a little small--meant just for two, with limited table space and limited foot space below--and as he slides his feet under, Mickey’s boots accidentally kick at Ian’s high-top Air Force Ones.

“Watch it, bitch,” Ian deadpans, giving Mickey a playful little kick to the ankles.

And well. That was probably the best thing he could possibly have said. 

Because Mickey doesn’t know if he could’ve stood the awkward, stilted conversation as the two of them felt their way to comfort, and he doesn’t know if he could’ve dealt with _silence_ or all the weird staring or the declaration that they’re just gonna have to result to a lifetime of FaceTime sex, after all.

This gives Mickey an in, gives him the tiny boost of confidence that he needs. He gives Ian gentle little knocking kicks under the table, smirks, and, taking in the fact that Ian’s water’s almost empty, asks, “How long you been here?”

Ian presses his lips into a straight line and raises his eyebrows. Looks at his watch. “Forty minutes.”

Mickey’s heart gives a pained _thud_ at that and his guts turn cold. “Fuck. Were we not planning for three, or.”

“It was three,” Ian interrupts, closing his eyes and nodding. “I’ve just been waiting around since, oh, _ten_? And I had to get the fuck out of my apartment before I lost my mind.”

Same page. _Same page_.

Mickey sniffs. Plays cool, even though he feels like he may vomit. “We coulda done this earlier.”

“Yeah, well. What’s a first date without panic? And sweat. I’m pretty sure I’ve got fuckin’ pit rings, so ignore them.”

Mickey smiles, and they’re looking at each other, and suddenly it’s the FaceTime stares again. 

He feels _weightless_ , though he also feels like an entire lifetime of good things have been dropped on his head and he’s a little dizzy from it, blinded from it.

He looks at Ian, and he sees that Ian’s breathing with his mouth open, that Ian’s _nervous_. And Mickey’s got the fuckin’ Jell-o arms, and he knows his face is redder than it’s ever been, and he keeps fuckin’ accidentally tapping his feet against Ian’s under the tiny, tiny goddamn fuckin’ booth, and really, _really_ , he’s afraid he might be losing it a little.

He breathes, a slow, slow exhale, and he watches Ian do the same, pursing his lips as he does it.

They look at each other and they look at each other, and it’s really obvious then that they’re both terrified.

They’re a couple of scared kids who’ve been given a pile of gold, and they don’t know what to do with it, and they don’t know how to react.

But maybe, just maybe, they can seek reassurance in the fact that they’re in it together. Two scared kids who, together, are gonna try.

As if Ian’s read his mind, he kicks Mickey’s shoe to break the spell, then grabs two menus from behind the napkin dispenser. “Tell me what’s good here?”

\---

Mickey orders his favorite burger with fries, and Ian gets the same but without onions, and once the waitress is gone and Mickey has his Dr. Pepper, the two of them settle into a silent moment.

Ian sips away at his ice water and watches Mickey’s face, and Mickey tries his damndest to keep from blushing like a fuckin’ kid.

And it’s awkward, the quiet, but he keeps telling himself that it’s _Ian_. It’s the ginger fucker he eats dinner with every night. Jerks off with. Whispers with. Wants to kiss.

“You look good,” Ian says suddenly, clearly having spent a moment trying to come up with something to say. He gets his elbow up on the table and grasps at the back of his neck. “Love the jacket.”

Mickey fidgets with his left sleeve self-consciously, toys with the cuff, and shrugs. Takes a stab at humor, at _we’re two scared kids who, together, are gonna try_. “It’s hidin’ my pit rings, so.”

Ian grins. And in that moment, Mickey knows it was exactly the right thing to say. Something hard slips from Ian’s face--the tension in his jaw, maybe, or the straightening of his brow. 

“I was so fuckin’ nervous about this,” he says, relief in his voice. “I’ve been textin’ Mandy all day.” He pulls out his phone, opens up iMessage, and scrolls up and down the messages for Mickey at a pace so fast that he can’t read anything.

“It’s fuckin’ weird that you’re texting my sister, man,” he says, taking a sip of his drink.

“It’s actually been really great for me to text her, Mick. She’s good to talk to about...” Mirroring Mickey, he takes a sip of his water. “Stuff.”

Mickey raises an eyebrow. “What stuff?”

And Ian works his mouth then like he’s deciding whether to say something. Finally, with a shrug, he murmurs, “Stuff about you.”

“What about me?” His face is getting hot, dammit.

Ian stares, eyes wandering from Mickey’s forehead to his chin. “Like about how much you blush and how much I love it.”

Mickey exhales loudly, and it’s an accident, really. Fuckin’ embarrassing. His face gets redder, skin heating, but well.

He bites his lip, considers for a second, and then kicks Ian under the table.

Ian--seemingly prepared for it, the fucker--catches his calf between his ankles and holds on.

And there’s something about that--about the fact that Ian’s body is making contact with his body--that sends a surge of _more_ blood into his cheeks and a little into his cock, maybe, and _fuck_ , is he seriously getting aroused by the feeling of Ian’s ankles against his leg?

He takes a hard swallow of his pop, grabs a napkin to wipe off his mouth, and gently, unbearably awkwardly, shrugs his leg out from Ian’s grip.

“Asshole,” he says, a low, embarrassed murmur. 

Ian just smirks at him. 

“It’s weird to be able to touch you,” he says, reaching over and poking at Mickey’s hand where it rests on the table. “I thought being with you in person would be much different from FaceTiming with you, but it really isn’t. Just, y’know. Being able to like, see more than what’s on the phone screen and like.” He taps their shoes together rather than finishing his sentence.

Mickey takes the hand Ian had just poked and rubs it across his face. “I dunno, man. It’s pretty fuckin’ different.”

He’s still nervous as fuck, really, even as Ian seems to be warming up. Every time Ian does anything like scratch his fuckin’ chin or adjust himself in his seat or blow out a breath that Mickey can feel on his skin, maybe, if he concentrates, his heart gives a little kick.

Ian reaches over and takes hold of the sleeve of Mickey’s jacket, just pinches it between his fingers and gives a little tug. Mickey looks at it, looks at Ian’s hand, and he can see the fuckin’ freckles on his knuckles and the jagged, chewed-short nails and the fine, barely-visible hairs. He takes a deep breath because it’s all he knows to do.

“Mickey,” Ian says, voice so, so soft.

Mickey looks at him.

“You’re doin’ great.” He smiles, and suddenly those fingers move, and now they’re on his hand, holding on to his ring and pinky fingers.

“Fuck off,” Mickey says, but he doesn’t shake away Ian’s squeezing fingers and he doesn’t kick away the shoes that are now pressing against either side of his left foot and he doesn’t do anything but grin--showing his fuckin’ teeth--and do his very best to look Ian in the eye.

\---

Things get easier, then. 

Their food comes, and Ian drops Mickey’s hand, and then they’re eating, and Ian’s right, really. It’s not that much different from their FaceTime dinners, and in fact, it’s a hell of a lot more fun.

Ian’s happy as fuck, munching away at his burger and talking with his mouth a little full but not too full to be gross. He tells him about some of the other incidents they had at the meet-and-greet on Monday, and Mickey tells him about how he had to break up a couple fights. They talk about the art print that finally came in, and Mickey shows Ian a picture of it on his phone.

And finally, Ian tells him about how his nephew’s starting to walk now, and he then pulls out his phone to show Mickey pictures.

And the thing about it--the thing that sorta gets to Mickey if he’s honest--is that he _hands_ Mickey is phone and gives him free reign to just look through his pictures.

Something about that feels significant, somehow, and it makes Mickey’s stomach twist.

Ian’s phone is warm in his hands, and he’s got a gray case on it with little scuff marks, and there’s a hairline crack along the top left corner of his screen.

It’s the device that’s been the basis of their communication for months. It makes Mickey a little breathless.

“I’d tell you not to scroll too much, but well.” Ian huffs a laugh. “You can if you want. Nothin’ you haven’t seen.”

Mickey’s cheeks flame up at that, and he feels a sneakered toe give a gentle tap to his calf in response.

He looks at the pictures and videos of Freddie, who’s walking to a tall, blonde woman who’s presumably his mother, and then, well, Mickey keeps scrolling. 

Ian has over two-thousand pictures in his camera roll, and Mickey obviously doesn’t do anything as weird as try to look through them all--though he would, maybe, if given the time and opportunity--but he does look through about thirty of them.

They range from dorky selfies to pictures of documents and shit from work to a couple pictures here and there he’s sent to Mickey--not full nudes, as he suspects Ian doesn’t keep them in his camera roll permanently, but shirtless pictures, certainly. One of him with his hand down the front of his boxers that he’d sent to Mickey a few days ago.

And well, he finds a couple of himself saved in there--a handful of shirtless and underwear shots he’d texted him recently.

It’s stupid, but it makes Mickey feel really fuckin’ good, honestly--that Ian likes his pictures, likes _him_ , is _attracted_ to him so much that he saves them to his camera roll so he can look at them later.

So that he can maybe jerk off to them later?

“Wait,” Ian’s saying suddenly, and he reaches over and gently grasps at the top of his phone. “Are you actually looking at all my pictures?”

“You mean looking at the pictures you have saved of me?” Mickey smirks. “Yeah.”

And _Ian_ fucking blushes at that, his cheeks pinkening just under his eyes. He pulls his phone away.

“Shut up,” he says, raising up off the booth seat a bit and shoving the phone back in his pocket.

Then, as if deciding that there’s no reason at all for him to be embarrassed, adds, “So what? It’s not a secret I think you’re hot.”

“I think you’re blushin’ there, man,” Mickey teases, kicking at his foot under the table.

“Lemme see _your_ phone.”

“No fuckin’ way.”

“You tellin’ me you don’t have pictures of me on there?”

Mickey schools his face into a stern expression. “Why would I have pictures of you on my phone?”

“I bet your fuckin’ _wallpaper_ ’s of me.”

“No fuckin’ way.”

“Lemme see it, then.”

“I’m not lettin’ you see my phone, bitch.”

And the thing about their teasing now is that they can get closer and closer as they do it, can touch each other as they do it, can whisper low and flirtatiously without worrying about the angle of their phone or whether they’re close enough for the other person to hear their whispers.

Ian leans across the table, having shoved his mostly empty plate to the side, and gets his whole hand on Mickey’s forearm, pulling him closer. And they’re just whispering and teasing back and forth, and Mickey’s got Ian’s calf between _his_ ankles, now, and honestly, it’s making Mickey a little happy, a little hard.

He drops Ian’s calf when he realizes it, and well, it’s not like he’s even semi-erect, really, but there’s a bit of pressure there, and there’s a bit of a tingle starting up, and how fucking embarrassing is it to be a twenty-six year old man getting a blood rush to his dick from a guy leaning in close to him?

He pulls back abruptly, as if burned, and Ian lets go of his arm.

Trying to distract himself, to pull back from the situation entirely, Mickey shoves the last bite of his burger into his mouth.

“You ready to go?” he asks with his mouth full, and Ian reaches for his wallet.

They tussle a bit over who should pay, and Ian ends up winning out, citing his need to pay Mickey back while Mickey rolls his eyes at him.

“Whatever,” he says, sliding out of the booth. “But I get the next thing.”

Ian touches a hand to his shoulder. “You asking me on a second date, Milkovich?”

“Fuck you’s what I’m askin’ you on,” he answers, making his way toward the front.

He turns his head just in time to catch Ian smiling at him as he pulls a twenty from his wallet.

\---  
\---

It’s barely four when they step out of the restaurant and onto the sidewalk. 

The sunlight is bright, still, and it hits Ian in such a way that makes Mickey fuckin’ breathless. It turns his hair this nice, coppery red and illuminates his skin, making his freckles stand out, and when he looks a certain way, the green of his eyes is shockingly vivid.

Mickey realizes he’s staring at about the same moment Ian realizes it, too, and he quickly looks away and fumbles in his pocket for his cigarettes.

“You smokin’ now or no?” Mickey asks, pulling a cigarette from the pack and shoving it between his lips. He moves away from the restaurant entrance and closer to an alley as he gets out his Bic and lights up.

Ian is quiet for several seconds--the length of time it takes Mickey to take a couple hard drags--and then, as if in answer, snatches the cigarette from Mickey’s lips and takes a drag, himself.

His cheeks go a little pink when he does it, as if he’s nervous, maybe worried about Mickey’s reaction. Mickey just drops his mouth open a little, breathing hard, and watches him smoke.

“I _am_ quitting,” Ian says through a smokey exhale. He holds the cigarette out to Mickey, who takes it back with shaky fingers.

“Looks like it,” Mickey says, bringing it up to his lips.

And well, he gets a bit of a rush at that because it’s like kissing, isn’t it? He thinks he can feel a bit of wetness from Ian’s lips, maybe.

He takes a hard, cheek-hollowing drag, and leans back against the side of the building.

His heart’s pounding, _pounding_ , and when he blows out the smoke, he hears the nervous stutter of the breath whistling out his lips.

“We could try quitting together,” Ian says, a gentle, unsure suggestion. 

Mickey rolls his eyes. Thumbs at his nose. “I’ll quit when I’m dead.”

He takes three more drags and then holds it out for Ian to finish. Ian narrows his eyes at it for a second but does take it, after all.

It _is_ a little bit like kissing, Mickey decides, his heart thump-thumping up, up, up into his throat. He blushes as he watches Ian take the last couple of drags and crush it out on the side of the building.

\---

There’s a snow cone truck a block down, and they buy one each--Ian red and Mickey blue--and eat them as they walk aimlessly around the area, talking.

Mickey’s heart flutters the more Ian eats, the more he talks, as his mouth’s getting all red and Mickey knows it would be cold if he kissed it. 

His stomach twists thinking of it, and he finds it hard to make eye contact as they discuss random shit and wander toward the park.

It’s a small park--nothing more than a wooded jogging loop, some rundown playground equipment, and a few benches. Ian snags an open bench and drops down, tilting back his snow cone cup and drinking the melted cherry sludge.

“Your mouth’s all blue,” he says afterward to Mickey, who sits down beside him. He’s got a gentle smile on his face, and the inner ring of his lips is bright red, as is his tongue. His normally white teeth are pink.

Self-consciously, Mickey rubs at his own mouth with the side of his index finger.

There’s a couple minutes of silence as they finish up their snow cones and toss the paper cups into the trash can beside the bench. And it’s a little awkward, the two of them just sitting side-by-side but a foot apart, mostly staring at their shoes or looking around the area.

Mickey wonders what Ian’s thinking. Wonders if he’s having fun, if he’s liking Mickey as much as he did over FaceTime. If he’s happy he met him. Happy he asked him on a date.

He pulls the corner of his lip up into his mouth and leans against the seatback. 

They’re in the shade, and it’s breezy and a little chilly, and his mouth’s cold from the snow cone. Mickey’s glad he wore his jacket. He folds his arms up and stretches his legs out, crossing them at the ankles.

Ian’s doing much of the same, it seems--just sitting there, leaning back, thinking. Mickey gives him a quick glance, sees he’s got his arms crossed, too, and wonders if he’s cold in his short sleeves.

He’s got hairy, freckly arms. Mickey looks up at his eyes for the briefest of moments and sees the freckles along the waterline at the bottom, and though he’s got his eyes open, he can still see a couple dots close to his lash-line on the lid.

And once he’s looking at his face, Mickey really can’t stop. Ian doesn’t seem to be paying much attention, his eyes focused somewhere in the distance, so Mickey looks his fill, staring at those freckled cheeks and those ginger lashes and brows.

He sees a shaving nick at his jaw and a tiny pimple just visible on his chin and the pearly sheen of a small scar under his eye that you would never be able to see unless you were this close.

Ian suddenly looks at him then, and it startles Mickey into a bit of a jump. Causes his breathing to speed.

And there’s a moment. 

Ian looks at him, looks right into his eyes, and smiles.

“Hey,” he says, so soft, so gentle.

Mickey smiles back. “Hey.” He looks away for a minute, eyes scanning the playground and then the walking path. “You wanna walk?”

When he looks back, Ian’s still staring at him, but he’s got a funny, contemplative expression on his face, like he’s at war with himself, like he’s wondering, “What if? What _if_?”

What if?

Mickey raises his eyebrows.

The expression immediately clears from Ian’s face and instead, is replaced with that smile again. “Yeah,” he says, pushing to stand.

Once Mickey’s up, he looks around again, and he’s a second away from asking Ian whether he wants to walk the path in the park or head back to the sidewalk when he suddenly feels a hand gripping his upper arm.

He goes to turn, but before he can, he’s being tugged in, and Ian’s lips are pressed against his cheek.

Ian holds it for a second, and Mickey’s breath stutters to a stop.

And he can feel the smoothness of Ian’s chin against his jaw and the touch of the tip of his nose against his cheekbone and the soft, soft lips against the hollow of his cheek.

There’s a squeaky kiss sound when Ian pulls back, and Mickey’s about to try to breathe again, has his mouth open to do it, even, when Ian places another peck on his temple as if he couldn’t help himself.

He drops his arm, and Mickey’s in a daze, eyes seeing nothing but light and bright when Ian laughs and says, “Sorry. I’ve just.” There’s a breath sound. “Been thinkin’ about it for like ten minutes.”

Mickey looks at him then, and through the light and through the bright, he can just make out Ian’s flushed face with gently upturned lips.

Lips that have touched Mickey’s skin.

He can feel it, still, those two snow cone cool presses, and he thinks as he tries to breathe, as he tries not to pass out that he’ll feel them forever.

\---

They walk the small loop in the park and then head back to the sidewalk and take a left, unintentionally following Mickey’s usual jogging route.

Mickey’s quiet, brain full of nothing but Ian’s lips and the gentle press of his nose against his cheekbone. 

“You okay?” Ian asks him after a minute, taking a step closer to him so that they bump into each other a little as they walk.

Mickey nods. “Yeah. Where we goin’, anyway?”

“Thought you knew.”

Mickey looks up at him, and Ian smirks, and well, he’d kiss his cheek, maybe, if they were somewhere a little more private.

And Ian must feel it too because that’s when he asks a question that makes Mickey’s belly twist like he’s that stupid middle schooler with the stupid crush. The stupid middle schooler that he never got to be, really. That he was too afraid to be.

“Can I hold your hand?” he asks, and it’s sweet and kind, and Mickey knows that he could say “no” if he wanted.

He doesn’t want to say “no.”

He shrugs, and he tries to look a little annoyed by the _dumb fuckin’ question_ , but when Ian snatches up his hand, when he laces their fingers together, he can do nothing but blush and breathe hard and squeeze his eyes shut for a second because he feels like he just might be floating away. 

\---

“Never actually done this before,” Ian murmurs as they walk, as their walking turns from casual to playful, the two of them using the closeness of their bodies due to the hand-holding to knock into each other and laugh.

“This shit on your list?”

“Yep.”

“Do you _actually_ have a list?”

Ian snorts and bumps Mickey’s shoulder. “Sort of.”

“Like, an _actual_ written list?”

“Shut up.”

Mickey squeezes his hand and Ian squeezes back.

They walk a few minutes more and are nearing the end of Mickey’s jogging route--are at the two-story red brick building where Mickey usually crosses to the other side of the street and loops back around toward home.

Ian pauses his walking, raises an eyebrow, and says, “So are we goin’ to my place, or.”

Mickey’s heart feels like it’s been fuckin’ _punted_.

“What?” he asks. And he doesn’t ask it like he’s shocked, like, “ _Excuse_ me?” He asks it like he didn’t hear well, like he’s got the ringing in his ears like he’s just shot a gun or like Ian’s just told him he wants to kiss him.

Ian holds up their joined hands and points toward the red brick building. “I, uh. Live here.”

Mickey peers up at the building--the building he _literally_ runs past three or four days a week--and drops his mouth open to breathe.

 _Goddammit_ , Gallagher.

“You live here,” he says, not asks, giving Ian a dubious glance.

“Yeah.”

“But I _know_ this place, man. I fuckin’ jog here all the fuckin’ time.”

And something happens to Ian’s face, then. It moves in a way that’s both entirely revealing and entirely _confusing_ , his lips twisting up and his brow knitting.

Mickey drops their joined hands.

“What?” he asks, dread in his voice.

Ian takes a deep breath--in and out--and shrugs. 

“It was only once,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “My windows don’t face this street, so it’s not like I watch you all the time or whatever, but. I _maybe_ saw you a couple weeks ago.” He winces a little, nervous, and finishes with, “I was gettin’ my mail, and I kinda saw you run past.”

The more he talks, the more embarrassed he gets, the redder his face becomes. And Mickey’s smaller than him, short enough that if he were to lean forward, his lips would touch the top of his sternum.

He stands right in front of him, and he watches him talk, and he watches him turn red, and _really_ , he suddenly understands why Ian likes it when he blushes so much.

Why it makes him wanna kiss him.

“Shut the fuck up, Gallagher,” he says, voice revealing more irritation than he actually feels.

“I should’ve told you,” Ian’s saying. “But it was only once, and it was before we’d talked about our feelings, and.” He pauses. Looks down into Mickey’s face.

And Mickey would’ve changed his fuckin’ jogging route after that because the guy he was into, the guy he thought only viewed him as a client, had seen him in person.

“Whatever,” Mickey says. He shrugs. “It’s fuckin’ over, man.”

It’s fuckin’ over, and Ian Gallagher has kissed his face (twice!), and he’s walked with him and held his hand, and Mickey thinks he might be his boyfriend.

He _smiles_ when he thinks it, looking up into Ian’s face.

“What?” Ian asks, giving a nervous little huff.

Mickey shakes his head but keeps smiling.

\---  
\---

They do actually end up climbing the stairs to Ian’s apartment.

When Ian had asked Mickey, his voice soft and sweet and shaky, if he wanted to come up, “To like, hang out. No pressure.” Mickey had blown out a nervous breath and, arms jittery, nodded.

And really, they’ve apparently completely foregone any pretense now, the two of them acting openly nervous, Ian blushing like hell, the cute-ass motherfucker, as he unlocks his front door.

“It’s a mess,” he warns, stepping in and holding the door so Mickey can grab it. 

And well. Yeah, it is.

It’s not so much _dirty_ , as everything’s clean and grime-free. He’s just got shit everywhere. A couple hoodies thrown over the back of his recliner. An excessively large pile of empty Amazon boxes near the door. A blanket half-on, half-off the couch. Books and remotes and random knick-knacks littering the coffee table.

“It’s cleaner than I thought, honestly,” Mickey deadpans, sauntering into the center of the living room and checking out some of the pictures on one of the shelves of Ian’s entertainment center.

Ian shrugs a little and walks into the adjoining kitchen. 

Though it’s clear based on the location that Ian’s rent is probably higher than Mickey’s, his apartment itself is much smaller. Much more cramped. 

His furniture, while actually pretty attractive--modern-looking IKEA pieces with clean lines and matching faux wood colors--looks _huge_ in his tiny living room.

“Beer?” Ian asks from the kitchen, setting an opened bottle of Miller Lite on the countertop and reaching back into the fridge to get himself a can of Vanilla Coke.

And as Mickey walks over to retrieve his beer, he can’t help but smile when he sees the kitchen with the countertops that Ian’s perched on, the fridge he’s taken cereal pictures in front of, and the little two-seater table in the corner he’s sat at while eating dinner with Mickey.

Ian pops the tab on his Coke and takes a bit of a slurping drink. He swallows. “Lemme give you an in-person tour.” He smiles, bumping Mickey a little on his way past. “I know the interior design’s spectacular, but try not to get too jealous.”

\---

Over the next couple of minutes, Ian plays tour guide, and though Mickey’s seen that episode of _The Office_ , too, he lets Ian have his fun and doesn’t say anything about the lines he clearly lifts from Jim. He lets him think he’s slick because well, he’s fuckin’ cute, and he’s excited.

Mickey drinks his beer and raises his eyebrows as Ian shows off his bathroom with the leaky tub, his hall closet, which is crammed full of the weirdest amalgamation of shit, and finally, his bedroom.

With the bed with the slatted headboard.

And the hunter green comforter set.

And the drool-stained pillow.

“And this is my room,” Ian says needlessly, having a seat on the edge of his bed.

The futon mattress is on the floor, and the tripod’s beside it, lowered like it was used recently and hasn’t yet been stored away.

Something about this--about seeing this scene in real life, _not_ just a quick scan of it on the screen of his phone--turns Mickey’s guts cold.

All Ian needs is to put his phone back on the tripod, and he’s all set up. Ready to go. Ready to perform for these old dudes with nicknames Mickey knows but with _real_ names that Ian knows.

Mickey thumbs at his nose. Rolls his lips into his mouth.

He _knows_ that this shit doesn’t mean anything to Ian. Knows it’s all for money. Knows it’s because he _wants_ things, wants _more_ out of his life and his future than throwing all his paycheck into his rent and his utilities. He wants _savings_ , and he wants to travel, and he wants to be a stable, “productive fuckin’ member of society.”

And Mickey doesn’t _care_ about what it is, really. It’s a job to Ian. He knows it. But he can’t help but look at that lowered, angled tripod and that futon mattress with the blue pillow on it and not want those gross old dudes to be seeing Ian’s body, telling him what to do with it and how to do it. And he _really_ doesn’t fuckin’ want any gross old dudes _touching_ him, putting their mouth on him, having his dick in them.

He hates that he thinks it, but well, he does. 

He knows that he doesn’t have a right to it--knows Ian can do whatever he wants with his body, knows the job he’s doing isn’t inherently violating or abusive. Knows there’s nothing _wrong_ with it, but. Well.

He sits down on the bed with Ian, feels the soft comforter under his palms, the comforter that’s been bunched under Ian’s armpits as he sent Mickey his first tentative photos, that wrapped him up like a beautiful burrito boy as he told Mickey about his bipolar, that was lifted as he showed Mickey his hard cock the first time they had FaceTime sex, and that was beneath him after their dinner and Netflix date, when Ian told him how much he wanted to kiss him, how much he wanted to hold him.

And maybe it’s another side-effect of love, and maybe it’s naitevé, and maybe it’s jealousy, and maybe they’re all three one and the same, but Mickey wants Ian, and he wants to kiss him while wrapped up in this comforter, and he wants to make love to him everywhere and in every way, and more than anything, he wants to be the only person who’s allowed.

Ian pokes Mickey on the thigh.

“What’s up?” he asks, brows knit with worry.

Mickey shrugs. “I dunno, man. Just kinda weird, y’know?”

Ian _hm_ s, and Mickey’s heard that little hum so much over the phone that it’s strange to see it in person. He gives him a small smile because well, he can’t help it.

“I don’t really know what to do,” Ian admits, voice strained like it pains him. He puts his hands on the thighs of his jeans and rubs them up and down.

And it occurs to Mickey then, not for the first time, that neither of them have any idea what they’re doing.

Neither of them have ever given or received a cheek kiss and then held hands with someone while they went on a walk.

Neither of them have ever been at home with or at the home of a boy they like.

Neither of them know the first step or the next step or how to make things happen.

And this, more than anything else, gives Mickey confidence.

He has confidence--no matter how little--when he looks at Ian and blows out a breath. 

He has confidence when he smiles at him.

And he has confidence when he cups the side of his head in his right hand and places his lips to his cheek.

It’s quick--quicker than Ian’s had been, even--and the kiss sound is loud in the quiet of the apartment. But he does it.

He does it, and it makes his heart pound, and it makes his stomach twist, and it makes him look everywhere but at Ian’s face, gaze jumping from side to side with nerves.

“Hey,” Ian says, voice soft, gentle.

Mickey chances a glance at him.

And Ian leans in and kisses him between the eyes. “Wanna watch a movie?” 

Mickey’s breathless.

\---

They take their drinks into the living room, kick off their shoes, and Ian puts on _Ferris Bueller’s Day Off_. 

Mickey’s seen it a thousand times--practically wore out the VHS when he was a kid--and he fuckin’ loves it. 

The two of them goof off as they watch, each stretched out on one end of the couch with their legs lying together in the middle, giving each other kicks and sharing a couple cigarettes as they watch Ferris adventure in their city.

“You ever done tourist shit?” Ian asks before bringing a cigarette to his lips and taking a drag. They’re watching Ferris and his friends lean against the windows of Sears Tower.

Mickey shrugs. “Not really? That one elementary field trip to Shedd Aquarium.” He pulls his legs back until they’re bent at the knees. Smirks. “Bet you’ve got ‘Tourist Shit’ on your list.”

“You know it.”

Ian holds out the cigarette and Mickey takes it from him.

“Wanna see it?” he asks, climbing up off the couch.

“So it’s an actual fuckin’ list. That was never established.”

Ian makes a whiny _ehhh_ sound. “It’s a list - _ish_.”

Mickey turns on the couch and watches him head into the kitchen, where he grabs a small, yellow notepad from where it rests in a basket of miscellaneous junk on the counter.

He drops it over the back of the couch when he returns, the notepad landing on Mickey’s lap.

“Like I said,” he starts, sitting down on the middle cushion, snug up against Mickey’s legs. “It’s a list -ish. I’m not weird about it, but it’s just like, random things I think we should do together.” He presses his lips into a straight line for a second. “If you want.”

And see, Mickey thinks the whole thing’s a little hokey, a little stupid, but the list is a lot less embarrassing than he thought it would be.

Not to say that it doesn’t make his heart pound, make his stomach clench when he reads it--because it does. It _does_.

It especially does when he sees that Ian wants to spend the night with him in a hotel with skyline views. 

“Most of the stuff’s in my head, y’know.” He taps his temple. “Just like stupid milestone shit. Like. Normal people shit, I guess.”

Like holding hands, probably.

Mickey nods. “Yeah,” he says, skimming the list. 

_Chicago sightseeing. Nice hotel w/ skyline views. Road trip. See the ocean. Amusement park? Get out of city - stargaze??_

“But. Y’know.” Ian shrugs. Leans a bit against Mickey’s legs. “I thought these would be fun things, maybe. Well. I’ve never done any of them, so I don’t know how fun they are, but. I want to, uh.”

He’s getting all shy, and a flush is beginning to creep up in his cheeks.

“Sorry,” he says, taking back the notepad and starting to stand, presumably to go put it back. “It’s stupid.”

Before he can move away, though, Mickey bumps his legs against him. 

And it may not be the boldest thing he’s ever said to him in all of their time together, but it’s the boldest thing he’s said today. The boldest thing he’s said in person.

“Ian.”

Ian looks at him. Raises his eyebrows.

“I wanna do _everything_ with you, man.”

Ian loses his breath at that, this little stuttery puff of air coming out with a soft sound that makes Mickey’s stomach twist.

“Yeah?” Ian asks, and it’s a whisper.

Mickey nods. “Yeah.”

Ian stands, and he looks shy and sweet when he holds out a hand. “Wanna get a snack?”

Mickey takes his hand.

\---  
\---

They’ve abandoned the movie, really, neither of them taking the time to pause it, and Ferris lip-syncing to “Danke Shoen” mixes in with this awful, synthy pop song Ian’s put on the bluetooth speaker in the kitchen.

It’s chaotic, but it makes Mickey’s cheeks warm when he thinks about how he’s there--he’s there in Ian’s kitchen, watching him microwave a bag of popcorn. 

And Ian _likes_ him. He likes him enough to have _a list_ \--to wanna travel with him and play with him and make love to him in a nice hotel.

To hold his hand. To kiss his cheek and his temple and that space between his eyes.

Mickey leans back against the counter, and it’s stupid, really, but he gets a little stuck for a minute, stuck in this feeling. 

Stuck in the thought that _he fucking has this_. He has this.

He’d believed, growing up, that he could only have love if it came with violence. Believed that he’d only be able to have hard, dirty fucks in secret and he’d never be able to have gentleness. Believed that he’d never be able to hold the hand of the person he liked. Would never be able to kiss him. 

To touch him.

To have things with him.

To plan things with him.

To stand in an overbright kitchen in a tiny, messy apartment with awful music in the background and watch him hold his arms out to the sides, elbows bent, and sway in a dance as he waits for the popcorn to pop.

Mickey crosses his arms over his chest and watches Ian and thinks about his stupid notepad and the list he’s got in his head, the list of normal people things, the list of milestones, of shit he wants to do for the very first time in his life with his very first real boyfriend, maybe.

He takes a breath--a quick, quick in-out puff through his nose--and he thinks about kissing him.

The microwave beeps, and Ian lets the popcorn sit for a few seconds as it finishes out its last pops before taking it out.

“You like the ranch powder shit?” Ian asks, opening up one of his messy-as-all-fuck cabinets and taking out a teal shaker of ranch seasoning.

And he’s dumping in an unhealthy amount and shaking the popcorn bag in an attempt to evenly disperse it when Mickey walks up to him.

“What’s up?” Ian asks, and he sounds so friendly and so sweet, and he’s got a smile on his face that could shatter Mickey in two if it wasn’t too busy lighting him on fire.

And he’s probably not very good at it, and he really doesn’t even know enough to know whether he is or not, but Mickey looks at Ian, and he thinks about him, and he thinks about how he never in a million years thought he could ever have this.

Could ever have a beautiful boy that likes him. Could ever have someone to love and to care for and to be a normal fucking person with.

Could ever kiss and have it be real, and have it to be gentle, and soft, and meaningful.

Ian’s looking at him, and he figures it out, Mickey knows--knows because he watches his gaze move from Mickey’s eyes to his mouth. He figures it out, and he drops open his mouth, and he’s got that nervous-stop-start-stutter gaspy breath again, and it twists Mickey into knots and slowly, slowly untangles him, unravels him.

And yeah, he’s probably not very good at it, but he tries.

He’s shaking as he gets his hand up behind Ian’s head, just at the nape of his neck. Panting as he tugs him down slowly, slowly.

Mickey thinks he might pass out, feels lightheaded, has those Jell-o arms and wobbly knees and, and.

He blows out a breath, and he knows it hits Ian in the face, probably, but he can’t help it, can’t think, can’t do anything but slowly, slowly pull him closer, and slowly, slowly attempt to _breathe_. 

And once Ian’s face is in front of him--once Mickey can see the individual pores of his skin, the tiny pinpricks of stubble just beginning to grow at his beard line, the slight dry patch on his chin--he leans in, and he leans in, and he presses his mouth to Ian’s upper lip in a kiss that can’t look anything more than like the first kiss of an inexperienced kid, like a twelve-year-old’s first kiss.

But it feels like love.

He pulls back, and he hears the sound of their kiss over the synth pop music and over Mr. Rooney getting his face kicked by Jeanie, and it shouldn’t feel good, this chaotic noise, but it does.

It feels so, so good.

He’s panting, _panting_ , and he’s got his eyes squeezed shut, fingers are pressing into the base of Ian’s skull.

And it feels even better when Ian places his hands around the sides of Mickey’s face, thumbs stroking at his cheeks, and touches their foreheads together.

“Check,” he whispers, voice shaky and shy, and Mickey can feel his breath against his mouth, can smell the sticky, sweet scent of the Vanilla Coke he’s been drinking. The faint, bitter undercurrent of their shared cigarette.

“What?” Mickey whispers back, and he wonders if Ian’s smelling the beer on his breath, wonders if he’s feeling and thinking about the texture of his skin under his thumbs. He gets his own hands up to Ian’s face. Pets at his cheeks.

Opens his eyes to see Ian staring at him, mouth open, skin pink, eyes wide like he can’t believe what’s happening. Can’t believe how good it is.

“Checked kissing you off my list,” he murmurs, sliding his thumbs back and forth against Mickey’s cheekbones.

Mickey snorts because that was so, so corny. And the two of them lean back then, foreheads separating, hands still grasping each other’s faces, and laugh.

Mickey thinks it’s the best thing he’s ever felt. He rubs at the stubble forming along Ian’s jaw, and he _knows_ it is.

He looks into Ian’s eyes once they’ve settled, and he smiles, and he pulls him back in until their foreheads are touching.

Ian bumps their noses together. Mickey takes it for what it is.

He closes his eyes, and he breathes out a soft pant, and he hears Ian inhale in a nervous shake through his nose as he touches their lips together again.

And they’re slow, sweet sips of kisses, nothing deep, nothing too complicated. Mickey’s learning, and Ian’s letting him. He’s rubbing his thumbs against Mickey’s cheekbones and pressing gentle kisses to his lips and giving him all the time he needs to get good at it.

Mickey pulls back to breathe, and well, fuck it, fuck it all, fuck everything because Ian’s looking at him, and his cheeks are flushed, and he’s got freckles on his eyelids and a smile on his lips and Mickey pulls him back in and does his very best to kiss him with all the intensity and all the passion that he feels in his heart.

The kiss is a little more open-mouthed now, and Ian’s putting more into it, as well, angling his head to get at Mickey’s mouth in a way that sends heat straight to his belly in a lava flow.

Mickey slides his hands back, drags his fingers through the sides of Ian’s hair, and he kisses him and kisses him and feels the soft wet of the insides of his lips and maybe a little bit of his tongue.

And he feels Ian’s hot, hot breath when he pulls back, breathes all in his face, nervous, nervous but _happy_ , then leans forward again and gives Mickey more of those sweet, sipping kisses.

Mickey’s warm _everywhere_ , and he feels a bit light on his feet and a bit hard in his jeans. He’s panting and panting, and he might think to be embarrassed if he could think in the first place.

Ian leans back for a second, and he smiles at him, and Mickey loves him so much he can’t stand it.

“Can I kiss your neck?” Ian asks, and it’s dumb that he asks. Mickey loves that he asks.

He pulls Ian in, and he gives him a peck at the corner of his mouth, and he nods, even though he thinks it might kill him, might cause his steadily-beating heart to burst.

And Ian spends the next couple of minutes bent down, mouth touching and kissing at his neck, his throat, his jaw.

He doesn’t give him a hickey, and he doesn’t give him anything other than gentle little sucks with his mouth, little presses with his lips, and a warm feeling in his gut, in his chest--this feeling that he’s _liked_ , that he’s loved, maybe, that Ian wants to make him feel good.

Ian pulls back, and he kisses him on the mouth again--a sweet, gentle thing--and wraps his arms around him.

Mickey smiles into his shoulder, breathes hard against his shirt, and holds him close. Turns his head and presses a kiss to his neck.

“I feel your heartbeat,” Ian murmurs, and Mickey shakes a little at that, at the knowledge that it’s beating so hard Ian can feel it against his chest.

“Sorry,” Mickey whispers, and he doesn’t know why he apologizes, as there’s nothing at all to apologize for. He swallows, body filled to the brim with nervous energy.

Ian takes Mickey’s arm then and gently moves it away from where it’s wrapped around his torso. He slides his hand down, down the fabric of his sleeve until he’s at his wrist, then his hand.

He puts Mickey’s hand over his own heart, which is beating, beating, cartoon-style thump-thump, like it’s about to burst out of his chest, like Ian’s just as nervous, just as excited, just as happy as he is.

Mickey closes his eyes with it, smiles with it, and he exhales in a rush when he feels Ian’s lips press against his forehead.

“Popcorn’s probably cold,” Ian murmurs against his skin, and Mickey laughs and gives him a gentle pat over his heart.

\---  
\---

The popcorn’s definitely lost the heat of its freshly popped form, but it hasn’t yet gotten stale and the ranch flavoring makes up for a lot of its issues.

Ian and Mickey stretch out on the couch together, Ian taking up the center cushion again, squeezing in close, and finish _Ferris Bueller_ while polishing off the bag.

And when the credits start to roll, Ian exits out of Netflix on his TV and pulls Mickey in for another kiss.

It’s sweet, and it’s slow, and there’s just enough wetness to it to make it soft. He pulls back, pecks Mickey on the nose, and smiles.

“I’m glad I met you,” he says.

In answer, Mickey pulls him back in. Touches their lips together once. Twice.

He thinks he might die, really, the blood surging through his veins, pulse throbbing in his neck, hormones flooding his body.

“So, by the kissing…” Ian starts, tone of voice going all light. “I’m assuming you think I was a good date.”

Mickey leans back against the armrest of the couch and laughs-- _giggles_ , really--and it occurs to him that there’ve been few times in his life when he’s laughed like this, so free, so happy, teeth showing and laughter coming out in a series of “heh-heh-hehs” rather than a simple breathy chuckle. 

“I dunno, man,” he says, and he knows he’s blushing because Ian suddenly looks unbearably fond and leans in and kisses his cheek. “There’s always room for improvement.”

Ian _hm_ s. “Oh yeah? What does an even better date get me?”

Mickey bites his lip, and well. He shrugs.

“ _That_ , huh?” Ian asks, filling in the blanks. He smiles. “I’ll be sure to work on my dating skills, then.”

Mickey shoves him a little, just pushes against his shoulder for no reason other than to do it. Ian grabs his hand and kisses his knuckles.

Touches his lips to those messily tattooed letters that are as much a part of his identity as his name.

Mickey Milkovich, son of Terry Milkovich, dirty-faced, FUCK U-UP knuckled, in-and-out of juvie, drug-running, high school dropout, kick your ass as soon as speak to you, lowlife piece of Southside trash is having his fingers kissed by a beautiful freckled boy, and it’s one of the most gentle things he’s ever experienced.

“I kinda like these,” Ian says, rubbing his thumb over the U-UP, making Mickey’s stomach twist. “I dunno.” He shrugs. “You’re so sweet. They’re like. Ironic.”

Of all the things he’s ever been called in his life, “sweet” has never been one of them. And Mickey realizes, somewhere in the hardened parts of his brain, of his heart, that he should be annoyed, maybe. _Offended_. A fuckin’ Milkovich called “sweet.” He’d have beat the shit out of anybody who called him sweet when he was a teenager, when he was a four-foot-ten thirteen-year-old in juvie.

Now, though, he just makes a face, and Ian makes a face back, and well. There are worse things.

\---

Ian puts on _The Office_ , and they watch two episodes while squished together, Ian pressed up against Mickey’s legs, which are bent at the knee. He’s sitting on Mickey’s toes.

It’s not comfortable, and part of him wants to kick him away, but the other part realizes that he can smell the scent of his laundry detergent and can feel the material of his jeans against the skin of his toes, can feel the warmth of his body where he’s pressed against his legs, and there’s not a fuckin’ thing in this world that could drag Mickey away from that.

\---

After they’ve watched “Safety Training” and “Product Recall,” Mickey stretches, prompting Ian to give him a little tap on the chest with the back of his hand.

Mickey glances at the watch on Ian’s wrist. Sniffs.

“Probably need to go,” he says, twisting a bit to dislodge the six-foot ginger leaning across him. “I usually feed Jovi at eight, so.”

It’s a lame excuse, really, and with anyone else he would’ve lied. But it’s Ian, and Ian likes his fuckin’ cat, and Mickey likes Ian.

Ian just shrugs in response, and he looks completely okay with it. He climbs up off the couch and gives Mickey a hand in getting up, himself.

“Until next time…” Ian says with a breathy laugh.

They chat casually while Mickey puts on his boots, and then they walk together to the door.

And it’s so startlingly, stupidly normal--like something on fuckin’ TV--that Mickey blushes a bit at it. At the fact that here he is, Mickey Milkovich, doing normal things. Getting a normal kiss goodnight after a normal first date.

“What you blushin’ for, Milkovich?” Ian asks, coming in close and gently setting his hands on his hips.

He smiles, and he shrugs a little, shyly, and says, “I guess it was a pretty good date.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He feels Ian’s fingers move against his waist, and he watches him blink a couple times and drop his mouth open to breathe.

And then Mickey inhales harshly through his nose when Ian swoops down and presses a soft kiss to his lips.

Mickey’s spent twenty-six years of his life not having been kissed _for real_. 

It’s the second half of June, and he’s less than two months away from turning twenty-seven, and his very first kisses were with a man he loves.

He bites the corner of his lip after Ian pulls back from the kiss. Looks him in the eye.

“Thanks for the rave review,” Ian says, squeezing his waist once before letting him go. “Wanna give me a thumbs up?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey grumbles, rolling his eyes. 

And he’d flip Ian off, but he guesses Ian’d joke about that, too, so he just kicks his bare foot and gets his hand on the doorknob.

“You’re adorable, Mickey Milkovich.”

Mickey considers leaving just for fun, but when he gets the door open, he quickly turns back and reaches out to squeeze Ian’s arm. “Bye, you dick.”

“Bye, Mickey.”

\---  
\---

When the door closes behind him, Mickey just stands there.

He stands there, and he stands there, and he _breathes_.

Good things don’t happen to him.

Good things, sweet things, gentle things don’t happen to boys who like boys in the Southside. 

_Impossible_ things don’t happen.

But as Mickey walks home that night, the sky dim and the streetlights buzzing on, all he can think is, _Ian happened. Ian happened._

 _Ian happened_ , and he held his hand, and he kissed him, and he kissed him, and he kissed him, and Mickey doesn’t know a lot, really, and he doesn’t know anything for sure, but he thinks Ian might love him, maybe. Maybe a little.

His kisses had felt like love.

\---  
\---

When he gets home, Mickey realizes that he hasn’t checked his phone in five hours.

He digs it out of his pocket, and he sees he’s got several messages from Mandy, asking about their date, and several from Ian, sent while Mickey was walking home.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (8:13 PM):** So do we wanna be one of those couples that has a weekly date night?

 **Ian (8:13 PM):** Assuming you wanna be a couple. 

**Ian (8:14 PM):** Hopefully you do. I’ve been calling you my boyfriend in my head for like three weeks now, and it’d be a shame if I had to stop.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey laughs.

Jovi’s rubbing up against his legs, back and forth, meowing for his dinner, and Mickey reaches down with one hand and strokes at his back. 

“Alright, gremlin,” he says, flipping on the lights and making his way into the kitchen.

He feeds the cat, grabs a beer from the fridge, and takes a few drinks of it before he composes a reply.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (8:38 PM):** You’re an idiot.

 **Ian (8:39 PM):** Sure. Fine.

 **Ian (8:40 PM):** But when you think in your head, “Ian’s an idiot,” do you think, “My boyfriend’s an idiot?” or do you think, “This weird guy who’s way too into me is an idiot?”

\-------------------------------------------------------

His boyfriend’s an idiot.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (8:41 PM):** What day’s our weekly date night

 **Ian (8:41 PM):** 😏

 **Ian (8:42 PM):** Friday or Saturday, depending on my work schedule? Friday next week? You wanna do something fun and touristy?

 **Mickey (8:43 PM):** Guess we can check a few things off that list of yours

 **Ian (8:43 PM):** 💙

 **Ian (8:44 PM):** So, about our date tonight…

 **Ian (8:44 PM):** 11/10, right? 😉 Mickey-scale 0/10? I mean, I’m not wrong, am I?

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey’s in love with a dumbass. He rolls his eyes, and he bites his lip, and he only pauses for a second before he types

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (8:45 PM):** My boyfriend’s an idiot.

\-------------------------------------------------------  
\---

Mickey gets out of his clothes that night, strips down to his boxers, and stretches out on the couch with Jovi, who curls up on his belly and purrs like a motor.

And even though it seems weird in retrospect, he just lies there in the quiet of the apartment, the TV off, the dishwasher off, the neighbors silent and still.

It’s quiet, but it doesn’t feel lonely.

He rubs at Jovi’s ears, and he sips his beer, and he thinks, _fuck_.

He kissed Ian.

Mickey Milkovich is a man who once was the kid who used to sit in his room with the door closed, flipping through gun magazines, looking at the guys and knowing, _knowing_ that he’d never fall in love and he’d never be safe and he’d never be able to be gentle and soft with a boy--would never be able to kiss someone he liked, someone he loved.

Tonight, Mickey Milkovich kissed Ian Gallagher. 

And it was everything a first kiss should be, and he felt love in it, and he felt care, and he felt the scared kid inside him, the little Milkovich--the boy with a chip on his shoulder and dirt on his face and thoughts only of a future of hard, dirty fucks in secret-- _breathe_ for the very first time. The casket opened. The soul flew free.

Mickey stares at the ceiling, and he feels the gentle vibrations of Jovi’s purr beneath his hand, and he thinks of the future, and he thinks of Ian’s list, and he thinks of all the ways in which life can be good, sometimes, even when it once seemed impossible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fun facts for Chapter 13:  
> -I want to start by thanking Steorie and all_lovefisher_ for the most incredible art they’ve done for this fic. I can’t believe that people care so much about something I’ve written to take their time to make such beautiful things, and I’m blown away. Thank you so, so much! ❤️️❤️️
> 
> Please check out:  
> -[Steorie’s incredible depiction](https://twitter.com/Steorie/status/1264660045939253248?s=20) of the food court scene (Chapter 12) that gives me butterflies when I look at it. _Look at Mickey’s blush_!  
> -and [all_lovefisher_’s beautiful art](https://twitter.com/all_lovefisher_/status/1265040658248749056?s=20) of Mickey’s Instagram photo (Chapter 3). It's so cute I can hardly stand it!
> 
> -On the date, Mickey’s wearing [this outfit](https://66.media.tumblr.com/b9ce008432ac61350f11d716a641e2e8/0f0897a5460435c6-9b/s400x600/52fb600f0458e2fe80ace36214609e1532415bc8.gifv) from 10x11 but with just a plain black T-shirt underneath because it’s June and he’s sweaty enough as it is. Ian’s outfit isn’t based on anything specific but is more inspired by other things he’s worn on the show in around the s7-9 timeframe. The subtle floral pattern on his shirt is taken from the subtle floral design of his wedding suit.
> 
> -Ian’s listening to [The 1975](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ebQhbUyF1L0) in the kitchen.
> 
> -I think I’m settled on 17 chapters for this. I’ve gone through and re- detail planned the last few chapters in order to make adjustments due to the stuff I’ve added in, and 17 it is. 
> 
> Thank you so much for everything! I can’t even begin to express how much joy you’ve brought into my life. And thank you so, so much to everyone who comments! I’m struggling with replies right now, but please know that I read and love every single one of them. You’re amazing.
> 
> The next update is going to be next week, and I’m going to go ahead and say next Wednesday? Maybe earlier. I'll let you know. I’m gonna need to take my time with it. And not to spoil anything--though I’m sure you can guess--but the last four chapters of this fic are going to be incredibly E for Explicit so. Warning? Something to look forward to?
> 
> ❤️️
> 
> Gray // [gallavichy](http://gallavichy.tumblr.com) // @GrayolaSays


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second date? Check.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which there are a series of firsts.
> 
> Hi everyone! Thank you so much for your patience! I haven’t had a ton of motivation to write lately, things being what they are, but I did manage to get this out. This one’s different in two ways: first, it’s about 20k (whoops), and second, I’ve incorporated embedded links to reference images throughout rather than placing them in the author’s notes. (Please right click -> open in new tab in order to prevent the fic page from redirecting)
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Mickey wakes on Sunday morning to the soft, golden glow of late June sun flooding his bedroom.

It’s quiet in his apartment, quiet and _calm_ , and for once it feels peaceful. Not dark or still or lonely. It feels relaxing. It’s light, and _he’s_ light, and it’s unusual, really, but he feels like _basking_.

He sleeps in on weekends, and it’s a sleep borne of the week’s exhaustion and stress with a dash of boredom for fun. When he wakes, he may lie and ruminate in his anxious thoughts. Or he may pull up one of Ian’s videos on his phone and spend time with leisurely masturbation, or if Ian’s off work, they may FaceTime and do it together. 

But he doesn’t _bask_. He doesn’t relax and stretch and stare at the ceiling with a smile as he thinks about _the future_.

This Sunday, though--the morning after--Mickey blinks open his eyes to that golden glow, and all he can think about is Ian’s soft lips on his, Ian’s thumb rubbing his knuckles, the warm weight of Ian’s body pressed up against his legs as they watched Netflix on the couch.

All Mickey can think about is the fact that he has a _boyfriend_.

Fuck.

He’s _dating_ someone. Someone he can kiss. Someone who can hold his hand. Someone who can give him a hard, dirty fuck if he wants it, maybe, but who can also give him _gentleness_. 

Someone who’s pretty much a firmly established _part of his life_.

Someone he’s allowed to be alone with. Allowed to want to be around all the time. Allowed to share secrets with, make plans with, and simply, simply _be_ with in the most normal, mundane fuckin’ way possible. 

No hiding. No fear.

Mickey has a boyfriend, and Mickey’s in love with him.

And well, Mickey feels like _basking_.

He glances at the clock. It’s a little after ten.

He lies there, stretched out under the covers, sleep-warm and comfortable, and spends about fifteen minutes daydreaming. He runs his hands aimlessly over his body, just feeling the softness of his skin, scratching his fingers in light circles over his abdomen, toying with the band of his boxers. 

Jovi hops up on the bed at one point, and Mickey takes a moment to nuzzle him just a bit when he curls up on his pillow, right beside his face.

Whatever. It’s his cat, man.

And it’s then that he hears his phone’s email chime. With a yawn, he grabs it off his nightstand, careful not to disturb Jovi, and swipes open the app.

It’s a SPECIAL OFFER email from kestrel.

There’s no reason for him to even open it, really, as it’s probably spam. He should just delete it. Swipe right in his mail app and send it, unopened, to his trash.

But he’s curious about this SPECIAL OFFER--in all caps--and well, he’s been thinking about kestrel a lot lately as it pertains to his boyfriend.

His fucking _boyfriend_.

Mickey bites his lip, holding back a stupid smile that there’s no one around to even see, and opens the email.

\-------------------------------------------------------

_Dear Mickey,_

_We at kestrel pride ourselves in our dedication to building relationships that last a lifetime._

_Because of this, we wanted to inform you that Ian, your previously-assigned Perfect Match, will no longer be performing Platinum Package services as of Thursday, June 25, 2020._

_As you have been such an invaluable client in the past, we thought you may want to give Ian an a **rousing** send-off._

_On behalf of all of us, we would like to offer you an exclusive, 25% off coupon code to be used on any one Platinum Package service following the standard re-subscription fee. Please reply to this email with the words IAN in order to receive the coupon code as well as other exclusive offers from kestrel._

_Hurry! This offer is only valid through Wednesday, June 24, 2020._

_We hope to see you in flight,_

_kestrel  
_  
\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey screenshots the email and texts Ian.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (10:27 AM):** The fuck’s this

 **Mickey (10:27 AM):** Did you get fired

\------------------------------------------------------- 

Ian doesn’t reply right away, which, for better or for worse, gives Mickey time to _think_ about this shit.

Because it really, really looks like Ian’s not gonna be fuckin’ anybody from the app anymore. 

_Why isn’t he gonna be fuckin’ anybody from the app anymore?_

He feels his heart pound in his chest, and he idly rubs at it with his right hand as he swipes back over to the email with his left and reads it again.

It says he’s no longer going to be performing _Platinum Package services_ , which still means he’ll be doing his phone and video stuff, but well. 

Mickey closes his eyes for a second, heat flooding his cheeks, thinking about the possibilities. Thinking about the _implications_.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (10:36 AM):** Good morning to you, too. 

**Ian (10:36 AM):** kestrel is the most annoying fucking company with their emails.

 **Ian (10:37 AM):** But no, not fired. I just removed the Platinum Package from my services.

 **Mickey (10:37 AM):** Why? You’re making like $500 a month off that

\------------------------------------------------------- 

Mickey bites the corner of his bottom lip.

His heart’s still pounding like a motherfucker. And he doesn’t want to sound like he’s _encouraging_ Ian because _fuck_ , it’s not like he wants Ian to be fucking other guys--even if it is completely emotionless, completely for pay. 

But it’s _five-hundred dollars_. 

That’s probably two-thirds of Ian’s rent for the month. That’s six thousand dollars saved per year.

And Ian’s only making around twenty dollars a week per Gold Package client, even if he has several of them, so stopping Platinum Package services is literally a fifty percent pay cut.

It makes Mickey feel a little sick, honestly--a little nervous and nauseous--that Ian’s giving up so much, even if it also gives him that romance stomach-twist to know that Mickey’s going to be the only one allowed to _touch_ him. To put his mouth on him. To give him pleasure.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (10:39 AM):** Yeah, it’s $500.

 **Ian (10:39 AM):** But I kinda only wanna have sex with my boyfriend, if that’s okay with you. 😉

\------------------------------------------------------- 

Mickey’s mouth drops open at that. 

He exhales all the air in his lungs in a slow, steady stream, then sets down his phone and scrubs his hands up and down his face. 

He can’t believe it, really. 

He has a boyfriend. He has a boyfriend who only wants to have sex with _him_.

He has a boyfriend who wants to _have sex_ with him. Who might want to do all the stuff he sees in the porn he searches for sometimes--all that white-sheeted bed shit, that good, thorough, sweaty, satisfying shit with the kissing and the touching and the smiling.

Ian FaceTimes him then, startling Jovi into jumping down off the bed, and Mickey only lets it go half a ring before he answers.

When the call connects, he immediately smiles, and it’s open and bright in a way that surprises him when he watches himself in the corner of the screen. 

He’s smiling because, well, he’s looking at his boyfriend, and Ian’s all soft and sweet, his hair sticking up, and he’s rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

Ian smiles back. 

Mickey looks at his mouth, and his stomach twists when he thinks about the fact that he’s _kissed_ those lips. He knows their texture. Knows their taste.

“ _Is_ that okay with you?” Ian asks, his voice gruff and sleepy and his mouth tilted in a knowing smirk. “That I only wanna have sex with my boyfriend?”

Annoying, flirty-ass motherfucker. Mickey rolls his eyes, though his smile remains.

“I think you’re crazy for turning down five-hundred dollars, man.”

He _says it_ , but he knows by the expression on Ian’s face that he ain’t buyin’ it. 

“Mmhm,” Ian hums, teasing, studying Mickey’s face. 

“Whatever.”

“Whatever?”

Mickey flushes and rubs his hand over his face to hide it. “Do what you want.”

“Oh, I will,” Ian responds flirtatiously, bouncing his eyebrows twice.

And he considers not asking, but there’s no reason not to. He blows out a breath when he thinks about how there’s no reason not to ask _anything_ that’s on his mind now because this is his fuckin’ _boyfriend_.

“You got--whatever you call ‘em-- _‘dates’_ this week?” Mickey asks, voice softer than he wants it to be.

Ian presses his lips together for a minute, like he’s not exactly excited to answer. “Yeah. One tomorrow night and another Wednesday.” He shrugs. “My regulars gettin’ in their farewell fucks, I guess.”

Mickey stares at him for a minute, twisting his mouth a bit in thought. “I get your job, y’know. It’s money for your savings, and you don’t have to like, I dunno, quit doin’ that shit ‘cause of me.”

It pains him to say it, but it _is_ true, as much as he hates it. 

Ian scratches at his jaw and nods once. “I know. But I’m also doin’ it because of me. And because I want sex to be something that you and I only have with each other.” 

It occurs to Mickey, then, that Ian’s never in his whole life had that--every single one of his sexual partners over the past nine years being either married or looking for a simple hookup. Sex, for him, has never been an intimate act, has never been with someone age-appropriate who loves him, and well. Maybe it’s a thing for him. Maybe monogamy’s on that list in his head.

Mickey looks him in the eye and nods slowly. And he wants to say something like, “Yeah, me too.” Something like “I can’t believe you want me like that.” 

And maybe, if he’s a little honest and a little selfish, something like, “Quit the whole fuckin’ app, man. I wanna be the only person who even gets to _see_ you.”

But what he says is, “I just don’t want you to miss out on the shit you want in life or whatever. Your American fuckin’ Dream shit. Five-hundred bucks a month’s a lot.”

Ian looks thoughtful for a moment before murmuring, soft, soft, “But part of my American fuckin’ Dream shit is sharing my life with someone.” His mouth forms a straight line and his cheeks pinken, like he’s embarrassed.

Mickey smiles at that. Sniffs. Thumbs at his nose. “You’re a fuckin’ sap, Gallagher.”

Ian shrugs. “Maybe.” He watches Mickey for a minute, and toward the end, the corners of his mouth slowly pull up in a smile. “You’re blushing though, Milkovich.”

Mickey flips him off.

“Y’know,” Ian says, so chatty this morning. “I may have those other ‘dates’ this week, but the only one I give a fuck about is the one I have with my boyfriend on Friday.”

He’s fuckin’ _trying_ to make Mickey blush, the asshole. 

“Yeah? Who’s that?” Mickey teases, twisting onto his side and propping his phone up on the pillow. He curls his arm under his head and smiles.

“Mm. His name’s Mickey.” And Ian gets all exaggeratedly animated when he adds, “He’s kind of a dick, but he’s like, _sooo_ fuckin’ cute when he blushes.”

“I hate you.”

“Sure ya do.”

“No, really.” Mickey puts on a serious face. “I hate you.”

“Mmhm.”

“Dick.”

“Uh huh.”

Mickey rolls his eyes, but the way Ian’s looking at him makes him turn his face into his pillow for a second so he can smile without looking like too much of an idiot. 

It doesn’t work.

When he turns back, Ian’s giving him sex eyes in the most obvious way.

“What’s that look for?” Mickey asks, reaching down to play with the waistband of his boxers.

“I wanna suck your dick.”

And he’s fuckin’ proud of Mickey’s reaction, apparently, because a few seconds after he says it, he smirks.

Mickey shoves his hand inside his boxers and starts petting at himself. “You any good?” he asks, breathing in slow, measured breaths through his nose.

Ian wiggles a bit, getting out of the confines of the comforter, and Mickey watches as he switches the phone into his left hand and snakes his right down under the covers. “Never had any complaints.”

“Mm.” Mickey blows out a breath. “But are you _good_?”

“You’ll have to find out.”

“Huh.”

Ian chuckles, bicep flexing under the sleeve of his white T-shirt. “I love your leaky dick.”

“Yeah, fuck you.” Mickey huffs, wrapping his hand around his fuckin’ _leaky dick_ and beginning a lazy, pleasure-building stroke.

“You are _sooo_ fuckin’ cute,” Ian repeats in a teasing callback to earlier, laughing through it.

“I’ll show you _cute_ , you asshole.”

“Do it, bitch.”

Mickey closes his eyes, sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, and laughs through his nose. And fuck, fuck, if this isn’t just fucking _nice_.

Having this. Having him.

When he opens his eyes, Ian’s looking at him. They smile at each other for a minute, arms moving as they get themselves off in this indulgent way they can only really do on lazy Sunday mornings.

They settle into it, and it’s slow and breath-filled.

Ian stops mid-way through to get some lube, and at another point, Jovi jumps back up on the bed and tries to stretch himself out over Mickey’s neck, causing them to stop and laugh while Mickey tells him to get the fuck down and gently moves him back to the floor. 

And then Ian’s calling Mickey cute again because of the voice he used with the cat, and really, _really_ , it’s just all so fucking _nice_ and so fucking good that when Mickey comes, all he can think about is how safe he feels.

\---

“Wow,” Ian says afterward, unashamedly wiping at his stomach with a wad of Kleenex. “You sure showed me. That _was_ cute.”

Mickey’s busy cleaning his own stomach off with his boxers when he replies, “You’re a fuckin’ dork, you know that?”

“You’re the one with a dork for a boyfriend.” And Ian just makes the _dorkiest_ face, his mouth a straight line and his eyebrows up, and Mickey can’t wait to kiss him again.

“You like saying ‘boyfriend,’ don’t you?”

“Y’know, I _really_ do, huh?” Ian smirks and pulls his T-shirt back down from where he’d had it bunched under his armpits so he wouldn’t come on it. Then he wiggles and shifts around, the mattress creaking, as he presumably pulls his underwear up with one hand. “So are you okay with being like, _out_ with me or whatever?”

Mickey grabs the phone, twists onto his back, and holds it up over his face. “Pretty sure everyone you’ve ever known knows about us, man.”

“Fuck you. I didn’t tell that many people.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows.

“I talked about you to like.” He pauses. Counts in his head. “Nine people. And six of them are my family members and one of them is your sister.”

“Who else is there to fuckin’ tell?”

“I didn’t tell anybody we’re a _couple_ , though. Just said we’ve been hangin’ out.”

“Is there a difference?”

Ian shrugs and runs a hand through his slightly sweat- and sleep-oily hair. “Yeah? I mean. Hangin’ out’s kinda like, ‘Let’s see where this goes,’ and a couple’s like, ‘I wanna _be with you_.’ With _intent_ and shit.” He pauses. Looks thoughtful. “I think?” 

There’s that word again. _Intent_. Ian’s into him with _romantic intent_. 

Mickey blows out a breath and stares at this man--this freckly, sweaty dude with sleep-puffy eyes and a pretty, post-orgasm flush--and thinks about how he wants to be with Mickey, wants to learn and grow with him. Wants to share his life with him, maybe.

“I’m okay with being out with you,” he says. Sniffs. “Yeah.”

Ian smiles. “Cool.”

“You can text your entire fuckin’ huge-ass family now.”

Ian rolls his eyes at him like he’s being _silly_. “I only asked ‘cause Fiona’s visiting for a few days, and she’s gonna ask me about my love life, and then _everybody’s_ gonna wanna know, and. Y’know.”

And Mickey _knows_ it’s an expression. But _love life_ gives him a bit of a kick to the heart. He schools his face to the best of his ability. 

They talk about Fiona for a bit, and then Ian gets up and carries the phone with him while he goes to the bathroom. 

It’s weird, probably, that Ian sets the phone down on the sink, camera pointed toward the ceiling, and pees while Mickey’s still on the FaceTime call with him. But whatever. 

Mickey tells him to wash his hands and then climbs out of bed to make coffee.

It’s just all so fucking _nice_. So fucking nice that it’s stupid, really, and they’re both wasting the battery life of their phones, and they end up spending a hell of a lot of time doing nothing but milling around their apartments together, having their coffee, and getting ready for the day. 

But it’s _good_.

So good that Mickey feels a dumb little pang of _don’t_ when Ian has to end the call in order to take a shower.

He knows he needs to get a fuckin’ grip, probably, but well. Ian’s got a love life that involves Mickey, and Ian gave up five-hundred dollars a month because he only wants to fuck Mickey, and Ian thinks Mickey’s _cute_ , apparently, and it’s all just a lot. 

It all just mixes together in Mickey’s stomach and his brain until he thinks this is what it must feel like to be a cloud. 

Until he thinks this is the way he wants to feel forever.

\---  
\---

The week fuckin’ _crawls_ by.

And see, his life over the past couple of years has been filled with boredom, with time seeming to snail its way by because there was nothing fucking happening, nothing at all. 

He spent a couple _years_ idle, exhausted from the nothingness, wanting something else, something better, but not knowing what that something was or where to find it or what to do with it once he had it.

But now, for the first time, the days are crawling because he’s _looking forward_ to something. He’s thinking about it, and he’s wanting it, and he’s sitting around at work and at home, willing away the hours in hopes that it’ll come faster.

He works on his apartment some--spends Monday and Tuesday after work giving it a deep cleaning, taking a toothbrush to the kitchen tile, even, and a squeegee to the shower glass. And on Wednesday, he buys a few candles in scents like “cedarwood” and “bergamot” and “vetiver,” whatever-the-fuck that shit is, and just for the hell of it, picks up a fuckin’ _plant_.

It’s a [philodendron](https://i.ibb.co/MSXvXz9/Ferm-Hexagon-Pot-L-Black-Philodendron-Cordatum-4.jpg) in a black, hexagonal pot, and he chose it both because it’s supposed to be easy as shit to keep alive and because he’s kind of excited about it vining across his living room wall, this bit of life that he can care for but can never really control.

He places it on the shelf beneath his framed posters, where there’s some indirect sunlight and where Jovi can’t reach, and then he lights his candles and opens a bottle of water and places a hand on his hip as he surveys the area.

And he _knows_ what he’s doing. What he’s preparing for, maybe. He’s even got a plan to wash his sheets Thursday night, and he’s got a six-pack of that Vanilla Coke shit Ian likes.

There’s no guarantee he’ll even end up at Mickey’s place, and even if he does, he works on Saturday, so he’s probably not gonna sleep over.

But it doesn’t hurt to be prepared, and the Cokes will keep for a bit, anyway.

\---  
\---

That night, he texts Ian because well, he’s thinking about him and he misses him in that stupid way that Ian once said he missed Mickey--that _I just wanna be around you all the time_ kind of missing. 

And maybe, _maybe_ he also texts him because he knows he had his last Platinum Package “date” at seven, and that it was with the Marvel Guy, who, thankfully, had ordered the most mundane of things: just a mutual handjob. 

It’s almost nine, now, and Ian’s had time to get home, shower, and eat. 

And really, _really_ , all Mickey wants to do is connect with him.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (8:49 PM):** Everything go ok

 **Ian (8:51 PM):** One handjob performed, one handjob received, one Ulysses S. Grant in my pocket.

\------------------------------------------------------- 

Mickey takes a second to Google Ulysses S. Grant to find out how much of a tip Ian actually received.

Fifty bucks. Not bad.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (8:52 PM):** Got it

 **Ian (8:52 PM):** My dick’s all yours now, Milkovich. 😎

\------------------------------------------------------- 

And it was clearly said teasingly, but Mickey has to blow out a breath at that. 

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (8:53 PM):** Good

\-------------------------------------------------------

is what he says, thumbs a little shaky as he types.

\------------------------------------------------------- 

**Ian (8:53 PM):** Oh yeah?

 **Mickey (8:53 PM):** Yeah

 **Ian (8:54 PM):** 😏

\------------------------------------------------------- 

Mickey’s at his tiny kitchen table, making his way through a pretty great Cuban sandwich he’d picked up on the way home. He takes a bite and smiles while he chews as he feels Jovi rub up against his legs.

“Gremlin,” he comments, picking up his phone and snapping a photo for Ian.

He sends it.

\------------------------------------------------------- 

**Ian (8:56 PM):** When do I get to meet this guy?!

\------------------------------------------------------- 

And well, here it is.

Mickey had been worried about it, wondering how the fuck he was supposed to get Ian to his apartment without having to like, fuckin’ awkwardly _invite_ him over after they have dinner on Friday.

But it just fell into his lap, really, like everything surrounding Ian tends to do.

\------------------------------------------------------- 

**Mickey (8:57 PM):** Friday if you want

 **Ian (8:57 PM):** Can’t wait. 

\------------------------------------------------------- 

Ian calls him then, and Mickey rolls his eyes at his phone for a second over that cute, eager fucking dork before answering.

“Mm?” 

“Just wanted to let you know something.” 

Ian pauses for a moment, as if waiting for Mickey to speak. When he doesn’t, he continues. “Please don’t view this as pressure in any fuckin’ form or fashion. I’m just like, telling you this because it’s your business, too, and I want you to know for the future.”

Mickey makes a full-mouthed, questioning sound as he chews his sandwich.

There’s the noise of a blown-out breath, and Ian seems a little nervous when he says, “So, I have an appointment in the morning to get tested. I should be good.” He takes a sip of something. Swallows. “I haven’t fucked anybody bareback since I was seventeen, and I’ve been gettin’ tested every six months since I’ve worked with the app. I’m always extremely careful with clients.” He clears his throat. “Don’t even do oral without a condom.” 

“Got it,” Mickey says before sucking in a quick breath. 

_Fuck_ , this is real. 

He’s talking about _testing_ , and _it’s Mickey’s business_ because they’re gonna _have sex_.

And Ian emphasized that there was _no pressure_ , but really, it seems like sex on Friday might be a thing Ian’s thinking about just as much as Mickey is, with his plan to wash his fuckin’ sheets and light his fuckin’ veti-whatever candles. 

His heart pounds, blood rushing in his ears.

“I’ll need to get tested again in about six weeks just to be sure, y’know, so we probably shouldn’t have anal without condoms yet, but.” There’s a heavy, in-out breath sound. “Is that something you’d be into? Like, in general?”

Ian is just talking an awful lot right now, and that blood is still rushing in Mickey ears, and he maybe, maybe can’t hear or process everything.

“What?” he asks, playing with his sandwich.

Ian makes a noise--a mumbly sound of embarrassed frustration--and repeats his question. “Would you, at some point in the future, wanna have like, anal sex. Without condoms.” He takes a drink. “It’s not everybody’s thing, y’know, even if it’s safe for them to go without. But.” He laughs a little, all breath. “I just wanted to check. To see how you feel about it.”

How he feels about it is really the state of his dick right now, honestly. Just the image--just the _thought_ \--of Ian’s bare cock, Ian’s come inside him, makes him _sweat_. Sends a little surge of blood downward.

“Uh. Yeah,” he says, ever so fucking eloquently, and crams the last bit of his sandwich into his mouth to give him something to do. Probably to muffle a noise.

“Good.” Ian sounds relieved, and there’s something so hot about it that Mickey feels a distinct _twitch_. 

He feels it even more so when the nervous, chattery motherfucker elaborates. “I’m like. Really into it. Sometimes I even search for it when I watch porn.” Pause. “I mean, I’m not like, into it in a fetish kinda way, or like, _obsessed_ with it or anything.”

Mickey _could_ tell him to shut up, but he’s kind of cute when he’s nervous and flustered, so Mickey just puts his elbow to the table, props his head up on his hand, and listens to him ramble.

“I just think it’s sorta hot to like, be inside somebody without a condom, and I really wanna be inside you like that. If you want. And I, uh, think about it. Sometimes.”

Mickey rubs a hand over his face. He closes his eyes for a second, ears ringing, heart pounding.

And well, _fuck_ , man.

“Can you, uh. Respond. To that.” Ian sounds stressed as fuck, and it makes Mickey smile.

He takes a moment to bite at his bottom lip. 

“Yeah,” he says, voice weak. “I’m into it. I want you to, uh. Do that. To me.” 

And his face is _on fire_.

He hears a heavy exhale.

It does make him feel better, though, to know Ian’s maybe feeling the same way.

“Sorry for rambling,” Ian says, voice carrying an edge of nervous laughter. “I just think this is like, a conversation we’re probably supposed to have before we fuck.” He pauses. 

And then his voice is soft, soft when he says, “I wanna do everything the right way with you.”

Mickey _breathes_. Why’s he gotta be so fuckin’ _nice_?

He sucks at his lips. Holds back a smile. Because really, _really_ , how’s it possible that Mickey Milkovich has a boyfriend he can kiss and touch and _like_ without that tenuous thread of anxiety--of fear? A boyfriend who makes him feel safe and normal and fuckin’ _happy_. A scrappy, Southside boyfriend who’s also a nice person.

How?

 _How_?

He talks with Ian for a few minutes longer, their awkward, stilted conversation slowly turning back over to an easy playfulness that makes Mickey laugh and call Ian a corny motherfucker only to be called a cranky bitch in return. 

And when they hang up, Ian sends something that Mickey can’t believe he’s maybe getting used to. Maybe starting to view as part of their relationship. A part of Ian’s kindness. His affection.

\------------------------------------------------------- 

**Ian (9:16 PM):** ❤️️

\------------------------------------------------------- 

Even if he’s getting used to it, it still makes his heart pound. Makes his belly twist. 

Especially the red one. 

Ian alternates between red and blue. Mickey doesn’t know if there’s a rhyme or reason to it other than Ian simply liking one color better than the other at any given moment. 

But they do _feel_ different to Mickey. 

And the red? Well, the red speeds his breath.

\------------------------------------------------------- 

**Mickey (9:17 PM):** 🖤

\-------------------------------------------------------

He sends black because he thinks Ian likes it, thinks he probably rolls his eyes and smiles at it.

It’s safe, for sure. But Mickey’s almost getting to the point where he can send it without his chest tightening with anxiety, without having that stupid, nervous tremble in his thumbs as he searches for it, enters it, sends it.

He looks at those two hearts, then scrolls back to the ones sent after their late night talk on Tuesday. Scrolls back to the ones sent Monday morning after Ian had called to talk to him while he commuted home from the Gallagher house. Scrolls back to the ones they sent after their Sunday morning FaceTime call.

And maybe he’s reading into it, maybe he’s seeing things that aren’t there.

But Mickey wonders if maybe, _maybe_ this isn’t just their way of saying some things they want to say--some things they’re too afraid to say.

\---  
\---

On Friday, Mickey rushes home after work to shower, change, and put on about four layers of deodorant. Then he takes the Red Line from 47th to meet Ian at the John Hancock Center.

They’d decided to meet for dinner at The Cheesecake Factory at seven and then head up to the observation deck for drinks and a bit of Ian’s _touristy shit_ afterward. 

Ian was off work, so he’d left earlier in the day in order to buy the observation deck tickets and reserve them a table before the crowds flooded it out. 

It’s about a twenty-minute L ride, and Mickey spends the time nervously fucking around on his phone and trying to quell the shakes in his arms, the twist in his belly. 

Idly, he wonders when he’ll stop getting nervous about seeing Ian--if this will one day become a thing as normal, as mundane, as texting him, as FaceTiming him, as sending fuckin’ _heart_ emojis has become.

He remembers back nearly seven months ago when he’d felt panicky at the thought of so much as sending Ian an instant message through the kestrel app. And last night, he’d FaceTimed Ian without a second thought to ask about his test results (negative), and then the two of them had propped up their phones, smoked weed, and played Truth or Strip, which had fairly predictably ended with them jerking off.

Maybe one day Ian’ll just fuckin’ show up at his apartment unannounced, and it’ll be nothing. It’ll be normal.

Maybe one day they’ll _live together_.

He purses his lips and blows out a breath.

\---

At the Monroe stop, Ian texts him.

\------------------------------------------------------- 

**Ian (6:46 PM):** ETA? Got us a booth. Waited for nearly an hour.

 **Ian (6:46 PM):** Also got observation deck tix. 

**Mickey (6:47 PM):** At Monroe now so should be there at 7

 **Ian (6:47 PM):** Can’t wait to see you. 😍

\------------------------------------------------------- 

Ian goes on to tell him his location inside the restaurant and then asks his drink choice so he can go ahead and order it.

“Sorry if I eat all the bread,” Mickey receives as he gets off at Chicago and makes his way out of the station.

He sends him a middle finger emoji and smiles as he pockets his phone.

\---

It’s a good thing Ian came early, as the restaurant is packed to the gills.

And it’s not fancy or anything, but it’s fancier than any restaurant Mickey’s ever been to in his entire twenty-six years of life. He’s got on a [purple T-shirt](https://i.ibb.co/B2d17Fg/GUEST-65c88691-75b4-47d5-9e13-cd58e23d8a49-wid-325-hei-325-qlt-80-fmt-webp.png), [light wash jeans, and Timbs](https://i.ibb.co/qjTR63s/Screen-Shot-2020-06-06-at-12-13-45-PM.png), and even though everybody else in the restaurant’s wearing their Chicago tourist shit and are sweaty and sunburned from a day of sightseeing, Mickey feels weirdly underdressed, weirdly out of place.

It’s also dim and _orange_ [inside](https://i.ibb.co/T210j4r/cheesecake-whiteplains-ny.jpg), and it takes him a minute to find Ian, who’s sitting at a two-seater booth in a dark corner, spreading some butter on a hunk of brown bread from the basket in the center of the table.

And well, his heart stops a little before kicking into a palpitation, and he has to consciously slow his breathing to keep himself from getting worked up.

Ian looks great, dressed in a [khaki green T-shirt, dark wash jeans, and black boots](https://i.ibb.co/Wg0jSgx/Screen-Shot-2020-06-06-at-12-17-30-PM.png). Mickey watches him for just a few seconds, chewing at his bottom lip as he sees him take a sip of what looks like a glass of raspberry lemonade. 

Mickey blows out a breath, shakes and flexes his hands, and slowly makes his way over to his table.

When he’s two booths away, Ian looks up from the bread he’s busy tearing up and eating, piece by piece, and spots him. 

“Hey,” he greets, dropping the piece of bread pinched between his fingers and standing.

Mickey smiles at him when he’s close and murmurs, “What’s up?”

They stand there and watch each other for a second, neither of them seemingly knowing what to do, before Ian finally takes him by the upper arm and pulls him into a quick hug.

Mickey’s face is pressed into the shoulder fabric of his T-shirt, and he smells Gain detergent and maybe a hint of a men’s body wash, and there are strong arms wrapped around his torso, and well. He’s pretty fuckin’ sure Ian can feel his heart beating again. 

Has to.

He blows out a breath through his nose as Ian releases him.

“You smell good,” Ian says, not making a move to sit. He just stands there, a foot away, smiling at Mickey.

He’d been swimming at the Gallagher house on Sunday, and the freckles on his cheeks are a little more pronounced from the sun, and Mickey just wants to grip his face and kiss the life out of him.

He doesn’t. 

He raises his eyebrows at him. Tilts his head a bit and makes to sit.

But just before he can, Ian leans in and gives him a quick press of a kiss that’s probably meant for his lips but, due to Mickey’s unexpected movement, lands on the space right under his nose.

Ian snickers his way out of it, his breath smelling like spearmint gum and hitting Mickey right in the face, and they’re both blushing like a couple of fuckin’ kids by the time they’re seated.

“Fancy,” Mickey comments awkwardly, a little breathlessly, trying to break the tension. 

Ian raises his eyebrows at him and pops a piece of bread into his mouth, chewing with his mouth closed and giving Mickey a fond look.

Mickey eyes the basket and takes a piece of the white bread, immediately biting into it. It’s this hard-shelled, rich people shit, and he has to tear into it a bit to get a proper bite.

Ian smirks. “The brown’s fuckin’ great, though.” He hands Mickey a shredded bit from his plate.

They munch in silence for a minute before Ian takes the literal spiral-bound _book_ of a menu and starts flipping through it.

“Y’ever been here?” Mickey asks, mouth slightly full of the brown bread he’s commandeered from Ian.

Ian shrugs and shakes his head, eyes a little wide as he flips through the overwhelming menu. Mickey grabs one and starts looking, too.

“Don’t really go out to eat much,” Ian murmurs, reading through the Specialties section. “And I haven’t been anywhere fancier than TGI Friday’s since I was sixteen and my family was having dinner with JimmySteve’s parents.”

Mickey pushes out air through his teeth. “Man, I ain’t even been to TGI Friday’s.”

Southside kids. 

They look at each other, hands gripping their menus a little awkwardly, and smile. 

Ian kicks his calf under the table.

It’s remarkably less awkward than it was last time. And while they’re still clearly a little nervous, as the minutes tick by, Mickey finds himself enjoying the fuck out of this.

After what seems like an enormously long period of time searching through the menu, talking about their options, they order: Ian the [Crispy Pineapple Chicken & Shrimp](https://i.ibb.co/m0Pn2gm/d9de4d5d8f5703bdd4d9ada5e9090466.jpg) and Mickey the [Baja Chicken Tacos](https://i.ibb.co/ypMMVRh/f8c5c0f8f47375ce378f0f73c01a3de9.jpg).

“We’re gonna have _rockin’_ breath,” Ian comments once the waitress leaves.

Mickey bites at the corner of his lip for a moment, considering, before saying with a smirk, “Good thing we’re not gonna kiss.”

Ian presses his lips together and nods, eyes shining. “That _is_ a good thing.” He takes a drink of his lemonade. “Good thing I haven’t missed you at all.”

“Good thing you’re so fuckin’ ugly.”

“Good thing I hate the way you look in purple.”

The corner of Mickey’s mouth pulls up, and it’s a struggle to school his expression. “Good thing I hate _you_.”

“Good thing I would never in a million fuckin’ years even _dream_ of wantin' to hold your hand right now.”

Mickey breaks at that, something light and happy bursting across his face all at once. A breathy laugh escapes his lips.

Ian captures his hand and laces their fingers together.

His stomach twists, that romance-twist that flushes his skin and makes him sweat, and as he looks down at their hands, he goes a little breathless, too, because he _can’t believe_ that he’s holding a man’s hand in public.

He can’t believe that he’s holding his _boyfriend_ ’s hand in public.

He can’t believe that he has a boyfriend.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” Ian asks, rubbing his thumb in a little circle over Mickey’s skin.

Mickey shrugs. “I dunno, man. Just never thought I’d…” He shakes their joined hands rather than finishing his sentence.

Ian watches his face, eyes scanning from his hairline to his chin. “Are you happy?” he asks, soft, soft, and he sounds so fucking _kind_.

Mickey smiles, this stupidly gentle thing, and pulls Ian’s hand a little closer, causing him to lean forward. 

He tilts down and pecks a kiss to Ian’s freckly wrist--so quick, so soft, it’s almost like it never happened.

“Asshole,” he whispers, and he doesn’t know why he does, but it makes Ian squeeze their hands together tight. Makes Mickey chew at his bottom lip and look at him in a way that he thinks is probably revealing if you know what you’re looking at.

\---

The service is slow, which isn’t surprising considering the restaurant’s so full. 

The two of them play with each other’s fingers, even turning it into a thumb war once, as they talk about work and movies and music. 

Ian’s got an earworm, and periodically, when the conversation lulls, he’ll murmur, “Hot damn, hot water, hot shower,” and Mickey’ll throw a torn off piece of bread at him.

When the food comes, they disconnect their hands and dig in. 

And they end up sharing food, sort of, Mickey giving Ian one of his tacos in exchange for some of Ian’s pineapple chicken and rice.

The food’s good, and it’s filling, and Mickey feels like he’s gonna explode when Ian suggests that they get cheesecake.

“We’re at The Cheesecake Factory. We’ve gotta get some fuckin’ _cheesecake_ , Mickey.”

He lets Ian talk him into sharing a slice of [Oreo Dream Extreme](https://i.ibb.co/6B1jVf8/960x720-CCF-Oreo-Dream-Extreme-Cheesecake.jpg).

The waitress brings two forks with it, and she gives them each a fond smile before walking away. Mickey looks at Ian and idly plays with his fork, thinking about how he’s sharing a fucking desert with his _boyfriend_ , and the waitress has just smiled at him like it’s completely sweet and ordinary, completely _believable_ for Mickey to have something like this.

They eat the cake slice together, fucking around the whole time, battling forks, fighting over the Oreo on top, and debating who gets the mousse. And once the plate’s empty, they stretch backward and hold their stomachs.

“Third trimester food baby,” Ian groans, holding his palms flat against the front of his shirt. 

Mickey kicks him under the table. “It’s your fuckin’ fault.”

“But it’s the fuckin’ _Cheesecake Factory_. How the hell d’you come here and not eat _cheesecake_?”

They let their full stomachs settle for a bit, sipping their drinks and engaging in idle chatter.

It’s eight-thirty by the time they’re paying--Mickey picking up the check this time--and heading out.

The restaurant opens directly into the bottom level of the John Hancock building, and as they walk toward the line to go up to the observation deck, Ian pulls out his wallet and flips it open to get the tickets.

Mickey glances over at it as he does it, sneaks a peek at his driver’s license, his debit card, two credit cards, and some sort of EMT ID. 

And just as Ian’s folding the wallet closed, Mickey sees it.

It’s the fuckin’ fortune from the fortune cookie.

He can’t read it, just sees it poking out from one of the empty credit card pockets. He _maybe_ catches that it starts with “Stop,” but well, that could be anything.

Mickey considers asking about it, but he doesn’t. Figures if Ian wanted him to know, he’d tell him.

But he _does_ wonder why he so obviously hid it that night, the weird motherfucker.

“Ready?” Ian asks, breaking the spell. He bumps Mickey a bit with his elbow and gives him a sweet smile.

And well, Mickey’s ready for everything.

\---  
\---

The [observation deck’s](https://i.ibb.co/q77Hn0k/Chicago-Attraction-360-Chicago-John-Hancock-IMG-3670.jpg) crowded, but they’re able to get drinks and snag a table by one of the windows in a semi-secluded area.

It’s kind of incredible to be up here, really, and Mickey doesn’t even bother hiding the look on his face when he stares out at [the lights of the city](https://i.ibb.co/KhPS6fj/Three-2048.jpg) below them. 

He’s been on plenty of Southside rooftops--has seen the Chicago skyline in the distance so many times that it ain’t even remarkable anymore. But he’s never been _above it all_ before, never seen the lights like this, never seen them grow slowly brighter as the sky dims, dims, darkens.

“Amazing, right?” Ian asks, leaning on the table, his head propped up on his elbow as he looks out.

Mickey takes a drink of his beer, glances at Ian, and murmurs, “Yeah.”

He thinks about amazing things.

\---

“You okay with that?” Mickey asks a moment later, nodding toward Ian’s beer. 

He’s been sipping it slowly, just one drink every few minutes.

Ian _hm_ s and taps at the glass with his thumbnail. “Just gotta go slow. Not lookin’ to have you carry me outta here.”

Mickey smirks. “I bet you’re so fuckin’ annoying when you’re shitfaced.”

“You have no idea, Milkovich.” He takes a sip. Laughs. “I sing. Sometimes.”

“Whatcha sing?”

“When I was at the club.” Ian pauses to chuckle. “Y’know. The voice memo situation? I was apparently singing [Dua Lipa](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q4az-Q9k4-E) before I passed out in an Uber. So that’s fun.”

Mickey doesn’t know who Dua Lipa is, but he takes Ian’s word for it and touches the toe of his boot to Ian’s calf.

“It’s gonna be [Chance the Rapper](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DMATysGZIeA) tonight if you don’t watch me,” Ian adds, taking another slurping sip of his drink before whipping out his phone. “Hot damn, hot water, hot shower.”

Mickey snorts into his own beer and takes a gulp. “Like I said. Annoying as fuck.” He burps.

“Mm. Take a selfie with me.”

And something about that _gets to Mickey_.

Such a huge part of their fuckin’ relationship so far’s been texts and pictures. Mickey’s camera roll’s about fifty percent Ian selfies, and the thought of being in a picture with him--finally, _finally_ \--sends a surge of warmth into his belly.

Ian’s dragging his chair around so he’s sitting with the window behind him, and with a deep breath, Mickey does the same.

 _He can’t believe it_ , really.

Once Ian has on the front camera, he leans in close, puts an arm around Mickey’s shoulders, and tilts their heads together.

Mickey stares at the two of them on the screen, and he considers pulling that semi-serious face he prefers for his selfies--that tough guy expression that acts as a bit of a protective shield for him when he’s taking pictures for Ian.

But when he looks at Ian’s genuine smile, sees how happy he is, the only thing he can do is smile, as well.

Ian takes a couple shots, holding his arm out at different angles in order to get as much of the city lights behind them as he can.

And then, for the last shot, he starts off with the usual smile but quickly turns his head and presses his lips to Mickey’s cheek before he takes the picture.

“Dick,” Mickey teases once Ian leans back and starts flipping through the pictures he’s just taken.

Without even looking up, thumbs scrolling and clicking, adding filters, Ian smirks. And well, it’s fuckin’ cute, and Mickey feels like a cloud, and he thinks his chest might burst if he doesn’t kiss him a little.

Ian’s got his head tilted down, his phone held at stomach-level, so Mickey has to dip and tilt his head to do it. 

But he does it. 

He presses his lips to Ian’s mouth for just a second, and it’s off-center and awkward because Ian wasn’t expecting it. But when he pulls back, their parting lips making a soft sound, Ian looks at him as if he feels a bit like a cloud, too.

\---

Ian only drinks half his pint, so Mickey finishes it for him in just a few huge swallows before they move from their table to walk around.

It’s completely dark outside now, and the city lights burn bright. It _is_ beautiful, and Mickey finds himself taking a couple of his own pictures while Ian does.

“Smile, bitch,” Ian says after a few minutes, tapping Mickey on the shoulder. Mickey rolls his eyes and _doesn’t_ smile, but Ian smirks at his phone anyway after he takes the picture.

They find a quiet area, the window revealing the tiny pinpricks of cars traveling along [Lake Shore Drive](https://i.ibb.co/R4w1S2F/360-Chicago-North-View-2016-01-04-reduced.jpg) a thousand feet below. Ian leans over the bar as much as he can and peers out, forehead an inch from the glass.

Mickey gives him a little push--just enough to scare him for a second--and Ian reaches out a blind arm and smacks at him in retaliation.

But once his arm makes contact, he doesn’t move it. Instead, he slides it down Mickey’s back and wraps it around his waist.

He keeps peering out--like it’s nothing, like he’s not tilting Mickey’s world on its axis--but all Mickey can peer at is him.

He wonders if Ian can feel the blood surging through his body, can feel the warmth seeping into his bones, the hiccupping stutters of his heart, his breath.

He’s standing a thousand feet above the earth, and the man he loves has his arm around his waist, and Mickey knows, he _knows_ , that if he were sixteen, still, and if he were lying in bed, staring up at the nicotine-stained ceiling and thinking about what life would be like for him in ten years, he never in a million years would’ve imagined this.

And Mickey knows that if that same sixteen-year-old kid were to fantasize about a situation like this--an imaginary date with an imaginary boyfriend--he would end up feeling sick to his stomach a little, would bite down on the insides of his cheeks to keep back the frustration of his impossible desires.

Ian pockets his phone with his right hand and, after taking a moment to pause, to observe Mickey out the corner of his eye, he turns--still holding him by the waist--and stands in front of him. 

Still cautious, his lips pressed into a straight, nervous line, Ian loops his right arm around Mickey’s waist, as well, keeping him in a loose hold.

Mickey looks up at him, heart pounding, this moment feeling like that sixteen-year-old kid’s most ridiculous dream, feeling impossible, feeling _magical_ , maybe.

The room is dim, the only lights being in the bar and gift shop area, and the lights behind them are shining so bright, so beautiful, so amazing.

Ian looks at Mickey, and he smiles, and Mickey feels like his heart’s going to burst when he dips down and kisses him, his fingers grasping the fabric at the back of his T-shirt.

It’s a soft kiss, and it’s slow, and there’s no obvious tongue but Mickey can feel the wetness just on the insides of Ian’s lips, and he can feel Ian suction a bit, isolate each of his lips in two sucking kisses that make Mickey’s knees shake.

They breathe in each other’s faces when Ian pulls back, presses his forehead to Mickey’s, and nuzzles at his nose. 

There aren’t many people in the immediate vicinity, but they’re still in public. Mickey chuckles a bit, thinking of it, and Ian pulls all the way back and gives him a peck at his hairline.

“Whatcha laughin’ at?”

Nervously, arms still a little wobbly, Mickey touches his hands to Ian’s sides, right over the line of his belt. “Givin’ people a fuckin’ show,” he says, gruff but good-natured.

“That okay?” Ian asks, arms loosening around Mickey’s torso. “Sorry. Probably should’ve asked.”

Mickey rolls his eyes and shoves at him. “Get off me,” he grumbles, but he’s grinning, and the shove is weak, and Ian makes a face at him that Mickey wants to kiss.

When Ian pulls his arms away, Mickey catches them and gives them a squeeze.

His heart feels happy.

\---  
\---

They leave the John Hancock Center at ten and walk together to catch the L back. 

No one’s said anything, but Mickey assumes the plan is still to go to his place. He’s glad Ian doesn’t try to hold his hand as they walk to Chicago station because his palms are over-warm and sweaty.

They sit together on the train, and Mickey watches as Ian crops and edits his photos and makes an Instagram post.

“Is it okay if I put the one of us on there?” he asks, holding out his phone to show it to Mickey.

After looking it over, Mickey shrugs. It’s _okay_. It’s the one of the two of them with their heads leaned together, and Mickey’s a little awkwardly smiley and maybe looks like a dumb kid with a crush.

But nobody who follows Ian on Instagram will give a fuck.

\---

Mickey’s phone buzzes when Ian posts, and Ian smirks at it. 

“Caught ya,” he says, referring to the fact that Mickey’s got alerts set for him.

He flips him off and swipes to open the app.

He looks through Ian’s pictures from the night, including the one of the two of them. “Date night.” the photo set is captioned, and it already has six likes.

Mickey blows out a slow breath and double-taps.

“Probably should’ve waited to post,” Ian notes, spreading his legs a little to bump Mickey’s thigh with his own. “I’m gonna have a fuckin’ photo shoot with your cat.”

Mickey bumps him back, trying to act calm, chill, even if he feels like his heart and lungs have turned to warm liquid. “I’m the only person he’s been around in months, man. Don’t be surprised if he hates you.”

Ian makes a face as if the thought that the cat could hate him is _preposterous_ and bumps Mickey’s thigh again.

Mickey kicks his foot.

\---  
\---

It’s about a ten minute walk from the station to Mickey’s apartment. It’s ten-thirty at night, and they’re in the Southside, so Mickey’s sweaty palms are safe again, for better or for worse.

And _fuck_.

He can’t believe he’s taking a guy to his apartment.

At ten-thirty at night.

Are they gonna _have sex_?

Mickey feels a little winded by the time they arrive at his block. He feels sweat at the back of his knees and under his arms.

When they’re in front of the building, Mickey nods toward it.

Ian snorts. “I’ve passed by here a million times. Mickey, we’re fuckin’ idiots.”

They’re fuckin’ idiots, yeah. 

But as Mickey uses his key to unlock the front door, he knows in his heart that there’s no fuckin’ way it could’ve happened any differently.

“This is actually a really nice place,” Ian comments, following Mickey into the bottom floor common area.

And honestly, it is. It’s old as fuck, but it has character. The bottom floor walls are unfinished brick, and Mrs. Callaghan keeps it spotless, plant-filled, and smelling like coffee from the Cuisinart coffee maker on a little table by the door.

They take the staircase up to the second floor and hang a left at the landing.

Mickey’d put out a [navy door mat](https://i.ibb.co/fNWDmFN/GUEST-7c9724ba-a7ef-4c36-bec2-44c3fc6ee564-wid-325-hei-325-qlt-80-fmt-webp.png) the day before, and he’s actually a little proud when he stands on it, unlocks his door, and lets Ian into his apartment.

His place isn’t the most stylish, and the work he’s put into it is only the work of an amateur. But it’s clean, and everything’s freshly painted, and he’s got a plant and framed posters, and it smells like fuckin’ _vetiver_ , which Google tells him is an Indian grass. And well, it just makes him feel good to bring Ian here, even though he’s trembling, even though his voice shakes a bit when he says, “Here it is.”

Mickey shuts and locks the door while Ian walks into the living room and looks around. 

Ian’s got his eyebrows raised, his lips pressed together, and he’s nodding in appreciation as he checks out all the parts of Mickey’s apartment that he’s seen a million times over FaceTime.

“Looks really great, Mickey,” he says, moving over to examine his posters and the little philodendron. 

Mickey’s blushing because he’s happy to hear it--happy to hear that Ian likes it. 

He leaves him to explore and goes to feed the cat. 

“Yo!” he calls, picking up Jovi’s empty food dish and walking it into the kitchen.

And the cat doesn’t come to Mickey’s call, but he launches out of the bedroom at lightning speed when he hears the rattle of the food bag, then hops up on the counter to wait.

“Jovi!” Ian greets, moving into the kitchen, face so bright and flushed and beautifully happy. “Oh my God. This is weird.”

Mickey laughs through his nose and, only taking a moment to consider it, picks up the cat and cuddles him against his chest.

Jovi’s an affectionate little fucker--especially when he knows he’s getting food--and he rubs his face all over Mickey’s neck and jaw as he purrs so hard he trills.

Mickey nods at Ian, who comes up and, with the gentlest of hands, strokes his back and his head and rubs behind his ears.

He _whispers_ to him, too, which is actually fuckin’ cute, even if Mickey rolls his eyes at it.

“Want him?” Mickey asks, shifting Jovi into a transferable position.

To his question, Ian nods and takes him.

And see, Mickey _had_ been a little worried that Jovi would be an asshole. He’d always been super fuckin’ friendly to _him_ , even when they first met six months ago, but he’d never seen him around other people before.

But he shouldn’t have worried.

Jovi takes to Ian immediately, rubbing his face all over him in the same way he’d done to his owner.

“Mickey,” Ian says--gentle, so gentle. “You have the nicest fuckin’ cat.”

And Mickey watches as he fuckin’ _kisses_ Jovi’s head, and he can’t help but walk closer and reach out a hand to pet the cat’s back, the two of them ending up standing there for a couple minutes, giving him affection.

Mickey does pull himself away, eventually, and he goes back to filling the cat’s dish. At the sound, Jovi starts to wiggle, and Ian leans down and lets him hop out of his arms onto the floor.

It takes Mickey time to fill the dish, then wash out and refill Jovi’s water bowl. When he looks up after setting everything on the feeding mat, he sees that Ian’s watching him, softness on his face.

And it’s then that it fully hits Mickey that Ian’s standing in his fuckin’ _kitchen_ \--the same kitchen from their FaceTime sessions, from that first time Ian said he wanted to kiss him.

He’s in his _apartment_. He’s in his _space_. He’s in a place that Mickey’s never let a single soul inside--a place of his own that he’s put his time, his energy, his sweat into improving. 

A place Ian’s helped him create.

“Hey,” Ian says, and it’s that gentle _hey_ that makes Mickey’s belly twist, makes his arms turn to Jell-O and his face flush.

Mickey walks over to him. Stands close.

Ian’s got cat hair on his shirt, and there’s a tiny smudge of chocolate at the very corner of his mouth in a place that’s only visible if you’re about to kiss him.

Mickey stretches up, leans in, and touches their lips together.

It’s tender, and there’s nothing to it, really--just a simple lip-press--but something about it apparently gets to Ian, as he wraps his arms around Mickey’s torso and squeezes tightly, like he’s captured him and isn’t planning to let him go.

He’s strong, and it feels good to be held like this, even if it’s just Ian being playful. It’s grounding. Safe. Mickey puts his hands on the edge of the counter at Ian’s back and just enjoys it.

He feels Ian’s belt buckle press into his stomach, and he feels the hard muscles of his abdomen, the expansion of his chest each time he inhales.

“Gotcha,” Ian murmurs, pecking his forehead.

Mickey wiggles a bit, trying to get free, and Ian, with a grunt, lifts him about three inches from the floor and manages to take a step before he needs to put him down.

“You fuckin’ dick,” Mickey complains while he smiles, giving Ian a sucker punch to the chest.

Ian reacts with an exaggerated “ _Ow_!” and shoves Mickey up against the fridge. And it’s not done hard, really, but the unexpected weight of Mickey’s body knocks an unopened ketchup bottle off the top. It hits the floor with a dull, plasticy thud.

And when Ian kisses Mickey this time, it isn’t a peck on the forehead.

He bends over for it, leaning down and tilting his head to the side, coming up from below and sucking a wet kiss onto Mickey’s mouth.

Mickey exhales into it, not entirely prepared, and it takes a second for him to get his footing, for him to get his hands up on Ian’s freckly cheeks and do his best to kiss the hell outta him.

 _Fuck_ , he’s so fucking into him.

Though they’ve kissed several times by now, Mickey’s still awkward at it. But Ian’s patient as hell, just seemingly kissing him how he’d kiss anybody and not giving a single fuck that Mickey’s a little breathless, a little slow to move his lips at times, a little fumbly.

Mickey kisses him and kisses him and feels maybe the slightest touch of tongue against his bottom lip as Ian takes it into his mouth and sucks on it.

At that, he breathes out-- _hard_ \--and Ian chuckles in response, quick puffs of air out his nose that hit all warm and pleasant against Mickey’s cheek.

He pulls back. Gives Mickey a soft, closed-mouth peck, then another on his cheek.

“Can I have a tour?” he asks, hands finding Mickey’s waist and giving a quick squeeze.

Mickey must look a little overwhelmed, as Ian laughs openly and kisses him again, a sweet, lippy thing that’s loud on the pull-back.

“Fuckin’ warn a guy,” Mickey grumbles, face hot, body hot, cock pulsing a little in his jeans from the increased blood flow to the area.

He smiles, though, when he turns to give Ian his tour and feels Ian’s hands on his shoulders from behind, giving him a rhythmic, massage-like squeeze.

Mickey takes a right out of the kitchen and into the small hallway, and then a right again into the bathroom. Flips on the switch.

“Bathroom,” he announces, waving his hand around and then flipping the switch back off.

“Boo.” Ian gives him a thumbs down. “You’re a shitty tour guide. Tell me the details. I put on a fuckin’ _performance_ for you.”

“You stole that shit from _The Office_.”

Ian’s cheeks pink at that, and he flips Mickey off at being called out.

The corners of Mickey’s lips turn up, even as he tries to school his expression. He flips the lights back on.

And he’s still a really fuckin’ shitty tour guide, but he plays it up a little, telling Ian about his _state of the art_ bath-shower combo with the creaky, sliding glass door and his _environmentally friendly_ low-pressure toilet you sometimes have to flush twice.

Ian holds his chin and nods, and he’s such a _dorky_ motherfucker that it takes everything in Mickey to keep from breaking into a smile.

He’s able to hold it together, though, as he shows Ian his little storage room full of boxes and random shit, and though leading Ian into his bedroom gives him literal heart palpitations and makes him blush like a fuckin’ teenager, he still doesn’t _smile_.

That is, he doesn’t smile until Ian pokes him in the stomach and asks where he keeps his dildo.

“I fuckin’ hate you,” he says, biting the grin off his lips. “And I’m never showin’ that shit to you, so you can fuck off.”

“So like, if I were to open up your nightstand drawer, I wouldn’t find it?”

Mickey shoves him. “Fuck you. No.”

Ian smirks, and he knows, he _knows_. “So you don’t mind me checking?”

“You’re an asshole, and if you touch my drawer, I’ll fuckin’ murder you.”

Ian walks over like he’s going to do it, and Mickey follows him, heart pounding, feeling like he’s going to pass out, maybe, thinking about Ian holding his fucking dildo in his hand--the dildo he uses a couple times a week and pretends he’s getting fucked by this dorky-ass redhead with freckles on his eyelids.

But though Ian places his hand on the drawer knob, he doesn’t open it. Just grins like the fucking Cheshire Cat when Mickey makes an exasperated noise and turns to face him.

“I’m not going to,” he assures, voice still holding a bit of that teasing lilt but not enough of it to make Mickey think he’s lying. “But, y’know. You _can_ show me that shit if you want. I won’t embarrass you about it or anything.”

Mickey gives him a pointed look.

“I won’t embarrass you in a _mean_ way.”

Mickey snorts and sits down on his bed. Ian follows.

And in a lot of ways, this is a parallel to what they did at Ian’s place the week prior, the two of them sitting side-by-side, quiet, quiet, just looking around the room and taking the time to breathe.

It washes over him, then, that he’s got a guy in his bedroom. That they’re sitting side-by-side on his bed. That they’ve gone on a date, have made out a little up against the fridge.

That Ian’s met his fuckin’ _cat_ , man, and he doesn’t know why it’s _that_ that gets to him, but it does. It gets to him in a way that gives him that romance-twist in his stomach. That makes his breath speed, makes his neck twitch from his quickening pulse. Makes his palms sweat.

Ian kicks a little at Mickey’s boot.

“You have a good time?” he asks, sliding backward a few inches so that he’s sitting more toward the center of the bed.

Mickey watches him--knows maybe what he’s doing--and smiles, warmth settling in his belly. 

He scoots back, too, then bites the bullet and climbs all the way onto the mattress, turning to lie down properly on the side of the bed near the wall, head resting on his pillow.

Ian does the same, lying on the opposite pillow, and suddenly they’re two men--two men in love, maybe--lying in bed together, watching the ceiling.

Mickey sniffs. Rubs a hand across his face. “Yeah,” he finally says, watching Ian out the corner of his eye. “Guess you’re a pretty good date, after all.”

“I am, huh?”

Mickey gives Ian a light smack on the stomach. It makes a weird _thunk_ sound, and the two of them crack up at it, taking the opportunity to just _laugh_ , no holding back.

Ian grasps his hand, which is still on his stomach, and holds it there.

And they’re laughing and laughing as Ian slides his fingers through Mickey’s and squeezes.

“Fuck,” Ian says, and Mickey turns his head on the pillow to look at him.

He’s grinning, and he’s flushed, and he’s beautiful. 

And because of this, and because he loves him, and because of a lot of impossible, impossible things, really, Mickey pulls his hand away, twists over onto his side, and touches his left hand to his cheek.

Ian exhales, slow, slow, and moves around to face Mickey.

And they stare at each other, that same stare they’ve been sharing over FaceTime, that _I can’t stop looking at you_ stare, that _I can’t get enough of you_ stare.

That _I wanna kiss you. I wanna to take you apart_ stare.

They lean in together, then, and the kiss is soft, soft--is love and light and warmth in Mickey’s belly, warmth down to his toes.

Mickey’s got his hand on Ian’s cheek, and he slides it back, feeling the scrubby texture of his stubble, feeling the shell of his ear, the soft hair at his temple.

He tries something with the kiss, sucks Ian’s bottom lip into his mouth, touches his tongue to it, and he’s breathless, _breathless_ when Ian gets his own hand up on Mickey’s cheek, slides it to the back of his head, and tugs him in closer, harder.

Ian pulls back for a second, and he breathes all in his face, and it’s fine, it’s _fine_ , his breath isn’t rockin’ at all, and Mickey has the fleeting thought that he wants it in his lungs, wants to breathe his air, wants it to be a part of him.

Ian gives Mickey a gentle shove, helping him roll over onto his back, and suddenly, Ian’s leaning over him, forearms on either side of his torso.

And he’s kissing him and kissing him.

They’re sweet sips of kisses at first--soft little things that are gentle but noisy, squeaky on the pull-back. But when Mickey feels brave, when the twist in his belly gets to be too much, tension like a thrumming wire sending vibrations throughout his body, he gets his arms up around Ian’s neck, and the kisses turn. They change.

Ian rubs their noses together for a second, the two of them sharing breath, lips so close they just barely touch. He opens his eyes, and he watches Mickey, seems to ask a question, and in that moment, it doesn’t matter what he’s asking, doesn’t matter at all, because the answer is and will always be _yes_ , fucking _yes_.

Ian gives him a kiss, and it’s soft and open. But this time, instead of pulling back a bit and going at Mickey’s lips from another angle, the kisses remaining shallow presses, Ian slides in his tongue.

 _Immediately_ , Mickey feels blood rushing to his cock in a way he’s never felt before, this sudden _surge_ that makes him breathless, makes him squirm a bit, makes his cheeks flame up.

And Ian _licks_ into his mouth again--this full _curl_ of a lick, his tongue stroking against Mickey’s, and it’s so, so good and so, so much, and Mickey pants against his mouth and just lets him do what he wants.

Ian kisses him normally once, twice, and then gets his tongue back in, and Mickey just pulls him closer, pulls him in and in and opens his mouth, and he’s learning, he’s learning, and Ian’s letting him.

Heat floods Mickey’s face when he thinks about what they’re doing, when he thinks about the fact that he’s a twenty-six year old learning to french kiss--that he’s doing it with his own boyfriend on his own bed in his own apartment. 

“Fuck, Mickey,” Ian whispers when he pulls back to breathe, and Mickey can’t stand it. He pulls Ian closer, closer, impossibly closer, and licks up into his mouth, and it’s wet and soft, and he’s kissing him, kissing him, and he fucking _loves_ him.

He wants to say it, really. He _does_.

And he knows it’s the hormones, probably, but it’s there, and it’s strong, and he pulls his arms from around Ian’s neck and gives him a gentle upward press so he’ll look at him, and it’s all he can do, _all he can do_ to not say, _I love you, I love you, I fucking love you._

Ian smiles at him. Presses a kiss to the space between his eyes and holds it for three breaths. Mickey pulls him down and does the thing he’s been wanting to do for _months_.

He kisses his fuckin’ freckly eyelids--just touches his lips to each one--and for good measure, kisses that one extra-dark freckle on his forehead.

He murmurs _Ian_ against his skin before he pulls back, and that one word carries behind it all the raw emotion of a love confession.

Ian sits up when Mickey lets him go. He rakes his fingers through his hair, pushing back the errant strands that have fallen across his forehead.

And in a move Mickey wasn’t expecting, he places both hands on Mickey’s stomach and gently, gently scratches at him with his nails, just these soothing circles combed into the fabric of his shirt.

Mickey blows out a breath, and he tries to focus, focus, but it’s relaxing and intensely _arousing_.

Ian swoops down and pecks a kiss to his mouth as he does it.

“Can I?” he asks, voice gentle. He lowers his head a little, motioning toward Mickey’s stomach.

Mickey’s heart beats so hard he thinks he can hear it, thinks _Ian_ can hear it, but he nods.

And he’s not _confident_ in what he thinks Ian’s gonna do, but when Ian gently pushes his shirt up under his armpits, exposing his entire chest and abdomen, he thinks he must be right.

“That freckle,” Ian says, touching at the one to the right of his navel.

Mickey raises his eyebrows in question.

“Kinda been wantin’ to kiss it since you sent me your first shirtless picture.”

Mickey _snorts_ at that, and suddenly, the tense mood, the nervous energy begins to dissipate. Suddenly, they’re just smiling at each other, and Ian’s lying back down, face hovering over Mickey’s belly, and he’s breathing, breathing against his skin.

And he kisses the freckle.

It’s a quick lip-press, and it’s sweet, fondness seeping from Ian’s pores.

Mickey still has to blow out a breath at it, though, and even more so when Ian gets his mouth back on him, drags his lips against the skin above his navel.

And his cock’s been teetering on the edge of hardness for a while, but Ian’s mouth on his stomach gives him a bloodrush in the _worst_ , _best_ way.

He feels warm, and there are tingles starting, and as he looks down, tucking his chin into his neck to look down his body, and sees Ian, hair falling in his face, crouched over him with his open mouth pressing and dragging kisses onto the skin of his belly, Mickey starts to shake.

There’s hot, hot breath, and then there’s tongue.

Ian licks a stripe up his abdomen and punctuates it with a kiss to his sternum. And never in his entire life has Mickey felt like this--like his nerve endings are on full display, soaking up every touch of Ian’s lips and tongue.

It’s _so_ intensely good. 

And he thinks he might die, and he thinks he might come in his pants when Ian licks at his right nipple. Sucks at the skin just below it.

“Ian,” he says, voice weak, strained. 

The air conditioning kicks on then, and Mickey can feel Ian’s saliva cooling on his skin.

Ian sucks at him, dragging his mouth down and kissing at the space just above his navel. 

And his erection’s getting difficult to ignore--both in appearance and sensation. When Ian sits up for a second to adjust his position, Mickey looks down and sees it, this painfully obvious bulge in his jeans. And the more Ian kisses at him, licks at him, the more worked up Mickey gets, his skin flushing all the way down, this throbbing _ache_ starting in his balls.

“Ian,” he repeats, voice stronger this time. 

Ian presses one more kiss right over his navel and lifts his head. “You okay?”

Mickey nods. Bites his lip. And something about that must get to Ian. He crawls back up Mickey’s body and presses a soft kiss to his lips.

“You’re beautiful,” he says. Kisses him again.

Mickey blows out a breath and presses his forearm to his eyes.

He’s blushing, and he’s sweating a little, and Ian moves his arm away from his face and kisses his cheek.

And rather than pulling away this time, he simply drags his mouth down Mickey’s cheek, down his jaw, his throat.

He presses kisses onto his chest, onto each nipple, and then slides his way down until he’s mouth-level with Mickey’s belt.

Mickey looks down in that moment, and he truly, truly thinks he’s going to come in his pants when Ian glances down at his erection and then touches his tongue to the space between his navel and the top of his jeans.

And he’s twenty-six years old, thank God, thank _fuck_ , because Mickey knows that if he were younger, if he were his sixteen-year-old self, he’d have just jizzed his jeans without so much as a touch.

As it stands, he still feels a _throb_ , and it’s all he can do not to put his hand on himself.

Ian touches his belt buckle. Starts to undo it as he sucks and sucks just below Mickey’s navel, just works that one spot in his mouth. And when he pulls back in order to more easily get the belt open, Mickey sees that he’s given him a hickey.

“You dick,” he complains, panting, and Ian grins at him and pulls the two sides of his belt apart.

“Speaking of,” Ian starts, removing his hands from Mickey’s belt and placing them on his stomach, starting up those circle-scratches. “Are you okay with me, uh.” He pauses and smiles, this sweet, red-faced, embarrassed thing. “I was gonna maybe blow you. If you want.”

And though Mickey’s tried his damndest to school his expression, to keep himself from showing his nerves, his intense arousal, there’s not a fuckin’ thing he can do to hold back the sound that comes when he breathes out.

His stomach twists, that romance-arousal twist he gets sometimes when they FaceTime, and it’s heightened by the fact that Ian’s hands are on his belly and he’s just offered to _suck his dick_.

And _fuck_ , it may last only two seconds, but Mickey’s going to get his first blowjob from a guy. And somehow, _somehow_ it’s gonna happen with someone he loves, someone he _trusts_ , someone who makes him feel safe in himself, safe in his sexuality, safe in his body.

“Okay,” he says--that entirely, entirely inadequate word.

\---

Mickey can hardly breathe as Ian opens his jeans. And it’s awkward, really, because he’s not sure whether he should help, or if it’s part of the experience to sort of lie back and let it happen.

He bites his lip, stomach in knots, and lifts his hips a bit to at least help Ian pull his jeans down to his thighs.

“Bitch, where’ve you been keepin’ _these_?” Ian asks, snapping the waistband of Mickey’s gray boxer briefs.

He only has a few pairs, usually preferring to wear shorts that double as his home loungewear, but he’d _maybe_ pulled these on after his post-work shower, flushing all the while.

He reaches his arm down and swats at Ian’s chest. “You don’t know all my underwear.”

“ _Clearly_.” Ian finishes pulling his jeans down, getting them to just above his knees. And he smiles when he sees the dime-sized wet spot, and well, that’s the one bad thing about the gray boxer briefs. They hide nothing.

Mickey _knows_ Ian likes it, but it’s fuckin’ embarrassing. He rubs his palms over his eyes.

“Leaker,” Ian teases, and Mickey groans at him.

Ian just laughs breathily in return, bends down, and presses a kiss to the wet spot in Mickey’s underwear.

“ _Fuck_. You can’t fuckin’ do that,” Mickey all but shouts, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Why not?” And he does it _again_ , and this time it’s longer, and there’s more pressure, and Mickey can feel Ian’s mouth against the head of his dick, the only thing between them being the thin fabric of his underwear.

And it’s fuckin’ stupid, but he thinks he can fuckin’ _feel_ more pre-come leak out. 

He inhales, exhales--shaky, shaky--and tries not to lose it when Ian’s fingers hook in the top of his boxer briefs and pull them down.

Mickey looks down at himself, then, and he sees he’s fully hard, cock pointing north-east, and he’s pink and shiny with wetness, and his pubes are mussed and sweat-damp.

And fuck, _fuck_ , he can’t believe Ian’s _looking at his dick_.

“I really do love it,” Ian says, and he looks so fuckin’ _kind_ when Mickey glances down at him. “You’re a leaker, and it’s hot as fuck.”

As if to prove his statement, Ian leans down and touches his tongue to the newest bit of pre-come welling up in his slit. 

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Mickey pushes out through his teeth, gripping his comforter in both hands. He pants, and he pants, and then he murmurs, “Ian, I’m gonna fuckin’ come the second you get your mouth on me.”

“Oh yeah?” 

Mickey just makes a breathy, grumbly sound.

And everything about this is embarrassing, really, as he’s probably doing a shitty job of being sexy in the situation, just lying there on his back, gripping the comforter in tight fists and trying to keep from blowing his load.

“Wish we had a timer,” Ian says, and he’s fucking _laughing_ when he bends his head and just puts his mouth over the tip of Mickey’s dick.

Mickey arches his back at that, and his thighs shake, belly trembles as Ian bobs his head once and pulls off.

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey’s whispering, over and over and over again. Ian scratches at his belly, then drags his fingers down and runs them through Mickey’s pubes.

He gets his mouth on him again, this time taking him in further, using his index and middle fingers to lightly guide his dick to its destination.

Mickey breathes out through his teeth in this harsh, hissing sound. His balls are drawing up already, and he feels that tell-tale tingle at the base of his spine, in his pelvis, inside his body. 

He looks at Ian, and he loves him, and he loves him, and he fucking _basks_ in it as he closes his eyes and _shakes_.

And Ian only gets two good headbobs in this time before Mickey’s pushing at his shoulders. “I’m gonna-- _Fuck_ , I’m coming. Fuck, _fuck_.”

He means to push Ian off him, get him off his dick before he gets a mouthful, but well, Ian apparently doesn’t give a fuck because he takes that moment, that moment when Mickey’s orgasm is approaching, approaching, to suck him in rhythmic little pulls, to stroke the rest of his dick with his hand.

“Ian, _fuck_. I’m-- I’m--” and he’s coming, and he’s coming hard, and there’s nothing he can do in that moment but squeeze his eyes shut, grip the comforter fabric so hard he nearly rips it, and _gasp_.

And _oh, fuck_ , he’s coming in Ian’s mouth.

The thought of it twists up his stomach so much he actually feels a little nauseous for a moment, even as he’s being flooded with pleasure so intense he thinks he might pass out, thinks he might die from it. 

He feels a hand on his chest, and he takes it without even looking, without even thinking, because it’s Ian, and he loves him, and he’s holding his hand as he sucks the hard edge of his orgasm out of him and into his mouth.

Mickey’s panting afterward, and he groans a little when he hears Ian swallow. When he feels Ian kiss his belly again, right over the hickey, then right in the dead center of his abdomen.

And all he wants, all he _fucking_ wants, is to kiss him. To hold him.

He swats at Ian’s shoulders, clutches at the fabric of his T-shirt, and pulls him up.

“You’re so fuckin’ hot,” Ian whispers before touching his lips to Mickey’s.

And it’s a little gross, maybe, because Mickey can taste remnants of his come on Ian’s tongue, but it’s also good as hell, and he thinks this is maybe his favorite thing that’s ever happened in his entire life. 

He’s helpless to stop himself, really, when he shoves Ian over onto his back and kisses the absolute _fuck_ out of him.

His mouth is _everywhere_ , and he may not be very skilled yet, but he thinks he might get at least an A-minus for passion. Maybe a solid A because Ian’s panting through the kisses, clearly turned on.

And Mickey pulls back and looks at him then, stares straight into his half-lidded eyes, moves his gaze all over his face, taking in his freckles, taking in his stubble and his soft, kiss-pink lips and his flush, and he knows that he’s about to give his very first blowjob.

“I don’t fuckin’ know what I’m doin’, man,” Mickey murmurs, breath coming hard, fast. He toys with the hem of Ian’s T-shirt. “So it’s probably gonna be-”

Ian places his hands on either side of Mickey’s face and pulls him in, planting a soft, suck of a kiss on his lips. “Just do whatever you want,” he says, running his thumbs back and forth along Mickey’s flushed cheeks. “Pretty sure you could sing the fuckin’ National Anthem at it and I’d blow, so I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”

Mickey _snorts_ at that and leans down to press his forehead against the center of Ian’s chest.

“Seriously,” Ian continues, putting his hands in Mickey’s hair and scratching at his scalp with his nails. “Like, ‘O say can you see,’ immediate ejaculation.”

“Fuckin’ dork.”

“A dork who’s horny and into you.”

Mickey laughs into the fabric of his shirt. Pinches his side.

And then he pushes up, bites at the corner of his mouth, and studies him. “Do you want me to uh.” He slides his hands back down to the hem of Ian’s shirt and pushes up the material, exposing his navel and that thick trail of ginger fuzz leading down into his jeans.

“Do whatever the fuck you want, man. I’m _so_ serious about that.”

Mickey takes a breath.

And well, he’s obviously never done this before, and it feels like something weird to do, maybe. He presses his lips together for a moment, takes a deep breath in, and then blows it out as he lowers his head closer to Ian’s exposed abdomen.

His stomach is twisting, twisting, but as he gets closer and closer, and as he looks at that hair, and as he glances over Ian’s slight outie belly button, all he really wants to do is _put his mouth on him_.

So he does.

Mickey touches his lips to the skin just above Ian’s navel and gives him a soft kiss, just a chaste mouth-press. 

He feels Ian’s stomach quiver a bit at that, and, taking it as a good sign, does it again. And again. Each time, his kisses become less chaste and more gentle sucks.

He drags his nose up the center of Ian’s belly, pushing the shirt up as he goes, smelling his body wash, smelling maybe a hint of his natural smell, a hint of his sweat, and then slides back down until his mouth is touching at his belly button and then skimming into the space below.

Ian blows out a breath at that, and his hands and fingers find themselves touching at Mickey’s head, running lazily through his hair and scratching soothingly at the nape of his neck.

Mickey doesn’t know if he’s doing it right or whatever, but Ian’s clearly into it. Mickey presses up a bit--nearly to sitting--and sees Ian’s hard in his jeans in a way that makes Mickey’s breath stutter. Makes him gasp a little to recover.

He places his hands on Ian’s belt.

Ian’s a little less useless at helping than Mickey was, he thinks, embarrassed, still reliving the experience. Ian gets his hands down and unbuckles his own belt, his practiced fingers opening it easily. But he lets Mickey do the unbuttoning, the unzipping.

When Mickey’s got his jeans parted, the two of them work together to pull them down to just above his knees.

Ian’s wearing those burgundy slim-fit cotton boxers he had on in the cereal photos, and Mickey almost smiles at them because he’d spent a solid week a few months ago zooming in on the line of his dick and jerking off to the way the fabric stretched across his pelvis. And now, he’s seeing them in person, and it’s stupid as fuck, but it feels surreal, almost. _Impossible_.

He blows out a breath, lips pursed as the slow, slow stream of air escapes his mouth.

“You’re doin’ great, man,” Ian says, reaching out a hand.

Mickey takes it. Laces their fingers together. Ian squeezes.

And Mickey’s embarrassed, and he knows his cheeks are on fire, but when he looks at Ian, all he can see is trust, is kindness, is affection.

He gently pulls his hand away and takes those goddamned tight-ass burgundy boxers by the elastic waistband. And taking a deep breath, he slowly drags them down until Ian’s cock is out, pressed flat at one o’clock against his lower belly.

And he _does_ fuckin’ smile at that because this is the thing he’s jerked off to for _months_ , and to see it in person sends a surge of warmth through his belly. 

It’s big, and it’s beautiful, and there’s a smattering of freckles along the shaft.

Sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, Mickey takes Ian’s dick in his hand and just holds it--holds it like he holds his fuckin’ dildo sometimes, feeling its girth, its weight.

And it almost sends Mickey into a gasp when he sees a shiny bead of pre-come well up in Ian’s slit, like the very fact that Mickey’s holding him like this--so clinically, probably, so awkwardly--has given him a rush of arousal.

He strokes him, just a little, just two up-down slides of his curled fingers, and Ian makes this funny breath sound at that, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment as he does it.

And well, that gives Mickey the confidence to do it.

He _does_ practice it a little-- _maybe_ \--suctioning his dildo to the wall by his bed or sometimes to the kitchen counter. He suctions that motherfucker to some surface, and he practices giving blowjobs, and he doesn’t, _doesn’t_ do it obsessively--just sorta tries it out, really, spending two or three minutes sliding it into his mouth and working on covering his teeth, working on suppressing his gag reflex.

But it’s different as fuck when it’s a real dick, with warmth and taste and the gentle throb of blood beneath the surface. It’s different when there’s a man attached to it.

He starts slow, taking just the head into his mouth and giving it a gentle suck, like he’s sucking on anything, really, and his heart gives a kick, cock starts to pulse a little when he tastes the saltiness of his slick pre-come on his tongue.

“Fuck,” Ian whispers, getting a hand up and just touching, tapping a little at Mickey’s head--not pressing, not guiding, just making contact.

Mickey pulls back and then presses a kiss there, right over the slit, working his fist a bit in a gentle massage of Ian’s shaft.

Encouraged by Ian’s breathy sounds, he goes in again, taking in about two inches to start, then slowly pressing down until he feels Ian’s cock hit the back of his throat.

Immediately, his belly lurches, and he makes a slight gagging sound before pulling back until only the head remains, cushioned by his tongue.

He breathes, _breathes_. He sucks. Pulls off completely and rubs his tongue just under the head.

“Fuck, Mickey,” Ian murmurs, scratching his nails against Mickey’s scalp and giving a single, punch-in-the-back “uh” sound, that fuckin’ sound he made during their first FaceTime session that about sent him over the edge.

Mickey goes down again, taking him in as much as he can without gagging and trying a bit of a head-bob--this quick, quick up-down, up-down, trying to slide his tongue against him as much as possible.

And that’s when Ian blows out a breath, then another, and Mickey feels a _pulse_ run through Ian’s dick, followed by more of that salty slickness.

“Okay. _Oookay_ ,” Ian pushes out, voice slightly high-pitched and shaky, shaky, hand tugging a bit at Mickey’s hair. “Mickey, I might-” He exhales through pursed lips.

Mickey pulls off, taking the moment to slide his hand up a little higher on the shaft of Ian’s dick, using it as a barrier to keep him from choking, and then gets him back into his mouth.

He sucks, sucks, in gentle little pulses, and he does his best to rub his tongue along the underside, right under the head where Mickey’s extra-sensitive, himself. 

And Ian starts to shake a bit, and he warns Mickey, warns him with, “I’m gonna come, so, uh.” Breath. Breath. “Oh, fuck, I’m gonna-”

Mickey knows he has a decision to make, but well, is it really a decision at all? Is there any other option in his mind than seeing this through--than rubbing his tongue up and down and around that spot just under the head of Ian’s cock, sliding his free hand into his sweat-damp ginger pubic hair and massaging, gently scratching his nails through it?

If there is, he doesn’t know of it.

So Mickey licks, and he sucks, and he pets at Ian’s body hair and listens, listens as Ian shakes apart.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he pushes out, then sucks in air through his teeth. “Yeah-yeah-yeah. _Fuck_.”

Mickey can’t see his face well when he casts his eyes upward, but the trembling of his belly, the flexing of his abdominal muscles, are enough for now. 

He slides that free hand from where it rests at the base of Ian’s cock up, up to the space below his navel, and he feels the quivers and the twitches and kicks of those muscles as Ian pants and pants and groans and starts to come.

And Mickey’s a little surprised at the sensation, the inside of his mouth suddenly becoming extremely _wet_ and slick as Ian pulses, pulses, pulses, pulses--four pulses--against his tongue. And his come is warm and slightly salty, and it’s genuinely the hottest, _hottest_ fucking thing in the world to be experiencing this, to have his mouth flooded with the result of Ian’s orgasm.

It’s so fuckin’ hot that Mickey doesn’t even care about the fact that he doesn’t _love_ the taste. Doesn’t care about anything at all, really, other than the fact that he’s bringing Ian pleasure, that he’s made him come, and that he’s the only motherfucking person who’s able to do that now.

He fucking _gets to have this_ , and it’s the _nicest_ thing, really.

When Ian’s done, his rhythmic, breathy grunts turning to a long, sweet sigh, Mickey pulls off and swallows.

Ian straight up _groans_ at that and does his best impression of Mickey post-blowjob, pulling Mickey up and devouring his mouth, this tongue-filled kiss that’s loud and wet and full of muffly _mm_ s and shaky breaths.

They settle after a minute, and things slow.

Mickey rolls to the side, his head on the pillow, and Ian twists to wrap an arm around his midsection, hand sliding up under his T-shirt to touch at his back.

They press their foreheads together, noses bumping, hot, slowing pants of breaths mingling in the middle.

Mickey gets his arm around Ian’s torso, as well, and they simply lie there for several minutes, their bodies surging with endorphins, with dopamine, with oxytocin, all those fuckin’ _love_ hormones that make Mickey press chaste kisses to Ian’s soft lips, that make Ian rub his nose against Mickey’s--so, so gentle, so, so tender.

And it’s stupid, probably, how they look--two men lying on their sides, holding each other, their jeans down to their knees, still, dicks pink and wet and only semi-soft, even after orgasm.

But as Mickey breathes Ian in, as he feels the press of his nose and the kiss of his lips, there’s nowhere, _nowhere_ he would rather be. Nothing he’d rather do.

\---

It’s eleven-thirty when they start moving around again, Ian pulling his hand from the back of Mickey’s shirt and giving his ass a little rub, then a squeeze, before he starts to pull back.

Mickey breathes out a laugh and leans out of the embrace, himself. He twists onto his back, grabs at his jeans, and lifts his ass off the bed to pull them up so he can fasten them.

By the time he’s finished, he sees Ian’s done the same.

“I’ve got some of that Vanilla Coke shit you like if you want it,” Mickey says, sitting up. Ian twists around until his legs are hanging off the side of the bed and, with a series of heaves, shows off with three crunches before completing the sit-up, stopping once he’s in an upright position.

He stands, and Mickey laughs at him when he wobbles a little, a bit shaky from what they did.

And fuck, _what they did_.

He’s just had Ian’s _dick in his mouth_. He’s just fuckin’ swallowed his come.

Mickey glances at the clock, then counts backwards in his head, and well. He maybe lasted about thirty seconds, and Ian maybe lasted about a minute and a half. 

But it was the best thing. His _favorite_ thing.

Ian holds out his hand then, just as Mickey’s thinking about how much he- Well. Just as he’s thinking about _how much_ in general, how much of everything there is inside him, every good thing, everything he didn’t think he could ever have in a million fuckin’ years when he was that sixteen-year-old staring up at his nicotine-stained ceiling and wondering, _imagining_.

Mickey takes his hand.

\---  
\---

They end up milling around the kitchen and living room, Ian smirking knowingly when Mickey gets him a Vanilla Coke from the fridge before grabbing a bottle of Old Style for himself.

“My boyfriend buys me gifts,” he teases a few minutes later, holding up the can and then taking an obnoxiously slurping sip.

Mickey rolls his eyes at him and leans against the back of the counter, facing the living room, where Ian’s got a feather wand toy in one hand and is swinging it around, playing with Jovi, who hides behind the recliner, wiggles his butt, and leaps out at it.

 _God_ , he’s fucking into him.

He’s so fucking into him he can’t stand it.

He _really_ can’t stand it when, after about five minutes of playing with the cat, Ian comes over, presses up all close, stomach to stomach, and just fuckin’ _hugs_ him.

And it _is_ a hug--like, a real one, with squeezing arms and a gentle side-to-side rock, and Ian making an _mmmm_ sound like he’s squeezing him with so much effort he’s gotta make noise.

He finishes with an annoying _mwaah_ kiss to his cheek, and Mickey pokes at his stomach and sides until he laughs.

And he looks at him, and he loves him, and he doesn’t want him to ever fuckin’ leave.

\---

They hang out for about fifteen more minutes, the two of them playing around, really, throwing the mouse toy for the cat and watching him chase after it, and then Ian flipping through Mickey’s video game collection and asking questions about them. 

Mickey’s apartment isn’t huge, the two of them literally able to whisper to each other with one in the kitchen and one in the living room if they wanted, but they follow one another around, anyway, always standing close, always acting interested in what the other’s doing. Touching a lot. Kissing sometimes.

Mickey’s telling Ian about how _Mortal Kombat 11_ differs from the older games when Ian just leans in, takes his chin between his thumb and index finger, and presses a kiss to his lips, cutting him off mid-sentence.

And when he pulls back, he acts like nothing happened, motioning for Mickey to continue and taking a drink of his Coke.

They’re on the living room floor, Mickey sitting with one leg bent and pulled up to his chest, the other extended, and Ian’s got both his legs stretched out in a V, Mickey’s box of video games in between.

“Probably need to go home,” Ian notes once Mickey’s finished talking. He reaches up to set his Coke can on the TV stand behind him and then picks up the video game box and places it back on the shelf.

He probably should. Mickey looks at the time on the cable box. It’s a little after midnight. But well, even though Ian _should_ , it doesn’t mean Mickey wants him to. He doesn’t want him to fuckin’ go. He wants to have sex with him again, and he wants to take a shower with him and climb into bed together, their bodies warm and clean and smelling of Mickey’s Irish Spring body wash.

He wants to wake up in the middle of the night and touch him, be held by him, kiss him.

“If you liked me, you would’ve taken tomorrow off,” Mickey grumbles, just messing with him.

Ian grins at him, so happy, so fuckin’ sweet, the motherfucker, and gets up on his knees.

He walks forward on them, one, two little knee-steps, until his body’s touching Mickey’s.

“I sucked your dick tonight,” Ian says, taking Mickey’s beer out of his hand and placing it on the coffee table. “And you think I don’t _like you_.” He smiles, maybe a little deviously.

“I dunno, man,” Mickey teases. “Just sayin’. You got vacation time saved up, and-”

Ian shoves him, toppling him over onto his back on the living room floor.

“What’s that about my vacation time?” Ian asks, stretching out over him. Pressing a kiss to his chin.

Mickey has no fuckin’ idea what he was about to say. 

“See,” Ian continues, touching his nose to Mickey’s and then dragging it to the left and down, down his cheek to his jaw. “If I didn’t like you, I probably wouldn’t do this.” He sucks a kiss onto Mickey’s neck, then his throat.

Mickey blows out a breath and gets his arms up, placing his hands on Ian’s lower back, right on the bare skin at his sacrum where his shirt’s riding up.

“I like you a _whooole_ fuckin’ lot,” Ian says, soft, soft, moving his mouth up to capture Mickey’s in a kiss that, for all the fact that it was borne of playfulness, is sweet and so entirely loving that Mickey feels like his body’s been lit on fire.

And that’s when Ian _thrusts_.

They’re squished together, Ian’s upper body flush to Mickey’s and his hips pressing against his at a slight angle, and he fuckin’ _humps_ him a little, dragging his jean-clad dick against Mickey’s own.

It’s weird, Mickey thinks, as he tilts his head back and lets Ian suck at his neck, as he squeezes his eyes shut and lets him thrust against him in lazy, rubbing circles. It’s weird because it feels so fuckin’ juvenile, really, like something a pair of dumb teenagers would do in the back of a car.

But _fuck_ , he’s into it.

He’s been in a half-hard state ever since he’d blown Ian, really, his dick not really erect but _plump_ \--getting there--and Ian’s current actions send blood positively _rushing_ down below.

He’s fuckin’ hard, man, and he feels the bulge of Ian pressing against him, and he just pants and pants and lets him fuck against him.

After a minute, Ian’s breathing gets too hard for him to keep kissing at Mickey’s neck, so he buries his face in his shoulder, instead, hips moving harder, harder.

“Fuckin’ humpin’ me,” Mickey grumbles through his heavy breaths, rubbing at Ian’s lower back before dragging his hands higher, pulling his shirt up as he does it so his fingers can touch along his spine.

Ian laughs against his shirt, and Mickey feels the burst of his warm breath through the fabric.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ come in my pants,” Ian murmurs, voice smushed and muffled. “Fuck, _fuck_.”

And there’s something about Ian’s _fuck_ that sets Mickey off. He rubs his hands back down Ian’s back, places them on his ass, and pulls him harder against him, makes him rock more and more.

Ian takes up the challenge, hooking his arms under Mickey’s upper back and sliding his hands up into his hair, and he thrusts and thrusts, hard, hard, until he starts to shake.

And then it’s over for both of them.

Ian comes with the sound of all the air leaving his lungs, this drawn out sigh, the tension in his body releasing until he’s boneless--this heavy, floppy dude on Mickey’s chest.

And to the sound of Ian’s relief, Mickey humps his hips up a couple times and squeezes his eyes shut, this sweet, sweet burn of an orgasm building to its peak and then shaking out of him in three hard pulses in his underwear.

Ian kisses him toward the end of it, and though he’s already come, himself, he gives Mickey a couple more thrusts, anyway, to make the orgasm as good as he can for him.

“Fuck,” Ian mumbles against Mickey’s mouth, releasing a hard breath through his nose. He lifts his head and looks down into Mickey’s face like he’s appalled with himself. 

“Y’know, I _knew_ that was probably a bad idea when I was doing it.”

“Bad idea, huh?” Mickey puts his hand to the back of Ian’s head and pulls him down for a quick peck on the lips.

“Got any boxers I can borrow?”

Mickey snorts and shoves at him a little until he gets off him.

They walk awkwardly into Mickey’s room, and Mickey gets both of them some clean underwear out of his dresser drawer.

And well, maybe this is weird, too--weird like the peeing while on FaceTime thing--but they go into the bathroom together and, facing away from each other, clean up and change their underwear.

Mickey remains in his checkered boxers, but Ian pulls his jeans back on before palming the crotch a bit to check if any wetness had spread through.

“This is sexy,” he says wryly, fastening his belt.

Mickey shrugs. “Whatever, man.” 

He turns to leave the bathroom, and as he’s just crossing the threshold into the hallway, he hears Ian ask, “ _Now_ do you believe that I like you?”

“Fuckin’ dork.” Mickey smiles and flips the bathroom light off on him.

\---  
\---

Ian _does_ actually leave a few minutes later, once he’s dressed and once he’s kissed Jovi on his whiskery face. Ian had given Mickey his phone before he put the cat down, telling him to take a picture of the two of them.

It was fuckin’ dumb, and Ian’s a fuckin’ sap, sort of, but whatever. He did it.

Afterward, he walks him downstairs to the common area and waits with him while he requests an Uber.

And they’re standing near the window by the door, watching for a silver Toyota Camry, when Ian places his hands on Mickey’s hips and asks, “So, date number two. Success?”

Mickey makes a “so-so” face, tilting his head from side to side. “I dunno, man. It was fine at first, but now I’ve gotta launder your fuckin’ boxers, and I think my cat likes you better than me.”

“Whoops,” Ian whispers, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“Yeah, _whoops_.”

And well, they get closer and closer again, and then Mickey’s getting his mouth on Ian, and they’re making out a little while they wait on the Uber.

It’s not _serious_ making out, as there’s not a whole lotta tongue involved, just some lip-sucking and a bit of neck action. But it’s fuckin’ _fun_ , and it’s playful, and Mickey finds himself moving Ian around as they kiss, gently walking him backward to press against various surfaces and having the same done to him.

“ _Wow_ , I like kissing you,” Ian teases in-between.

“You’re the biggest fuckin’ dork.”

“Listen, man.” Kiss. “I don’t know what else to say.” Kiss. “You’re _romantically involved_ with me.” Kiss-kiss.

Mickey opens his mouth to breathe at that, and then he presses that open mouth to Ian’s neck, and then to his lips. “Guess I don’t know how to pick ‘em.”

“Sure.”

And now their kisses are smile-filled, and their teeth press together a bit from it. Mickey kisses him and kisses him and loves him and loves him and takes him by the hips and turns him around to press against the wall.

Before they make it there, though, Ian’s foot bumps the leg of a little display table, sending its contents--a succulent pot and a bowl of peppermints--onto the floor with a crash that’s only loud because it’s twelve-fifty at night.

“Fuck!” Ian exclaims, pulling away from Mickey and scrambling to pick up everything. Nothing broke, but the peppermints are scattered everywhere, and about a quarter of the potting soil has spilled from the succulent pot.

Mickey helps him get the shit up and sorta shovels as much of the soil into his palm as he can, dumping it back into the pot. No harm done, really. 

The Uber pulls up then, and Mickey kicks at Ian’s boot. “Night,” he says, rubbing his dirty palms on his boxers.

Ian takes him by the shoulders and pulls him in for one last kiss--just a peck of a thing, but it’s sweet. “Night, Mick.” 

He smiles, bright, bright, like he’s lit up from the inside, and, as he’s turning to go, seemingly decides to add on, “I’ll text you when I get home.”

Mickey nods at him and watches him go.

And he stays silent because really, the only thing he wants to say is, “Don’t fuckin’ leave, man.”

He watches through the window as Ian gets into the Uber, and then, with a deep breath, with a soft smile on his lips, he turns toward the stairs to head back up to his apartment.

Just as he’s taking the first step, Mrs. Callaghan’s apartment door opens.

She’s in her long, pink nightgown, and her hair’s a wreck. 

“Mickey?” Her voice is gravely from sleep.

“Fuck,” he says, scrubbing his left hand down his face. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“What was that noise?”

“Ian, uh.” He pushes out a little puff of breath from his nose--in nerves or amusement or both. “My um. Boyfriend. He bumped into somethin’. No big deal.”

“Your _boyfriend_?” And she gets this look on her face like she’s about to call Mickey cute and pinch his cheeks. “This is the person you told me about?”

He nods, feeling awkward as fuck. Embarrassed, maybe, even though he doesn’t know why he’d be embarrassed over this shit.

“Well, you better bring him to meet me next time.” She punctuates her words with a pointing finger.

Mickey rolls his eyes. Fights a smile. “Night, Mrs. C.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

And he’s halfway up the staircase when she calls, “By the way, Mickey?”

He turns and raises his eyebrows at her. 

“Don’t forget to put your pants back on next time.”

It’s Mrs. C., so he doesn’t flip her off. But he does think about it.

\---  
\---

When he returns to his apartment, Jovi’s standing by the little treat dish Mickey keeps on the coffee table, meowing.

“Alright, alright,” he grumbles, taking the bag of Party Mix from where he keeps it in the TV stand drawer and sprinkling out a few.

Jovi, ever the treat-addict, immediately starts crunching away, and Mickey can’t help but smile at it. He rubs the scruff of his neck as he eats. “You met Ian, huh,” he says, giving him a scratch. “He’s a fuckin’ dork, right?”

He is. He is _such_ a fuckin’ dork. 

Mickey drops down on the couch, picks up the beer he’d abandoned when Ian had humped him on the living room floor-- _Jesus Christ_ \--and takes a drink.

And it’s after one, and he should probably go to sleep, but he just sits there for several minutes and _thinks about him_.

Mickey Milkovich has a fuckin’ _boyfriend_.

He’s _dating_ someone. Someone he can kiss against every surface. Someone who can hold his hand across the restaurant table. Someone who can give him a fast, playful dry hump on the living room floor but can also give him a soft blowjob on the bed.

Someone he can bring to meet his landlady.

Someone who _loves_ his cat.

Someone he has fun with, really. A whole fuckin’ lotta fun.

He finishes his beer, and he looks down at himself. Looks at his purple T-shirt Ian had slid up under his armpits so he could kiss his chest and stomach. Looks at his checkered boxers he’s only now wearing because Ian had made him come in the others.

He stretches out a little and lifts his shirt, and he looks at the nickel-sized purple-red hickey beneath his navel. Touches it with his fingertips.

 _Fuck_. He’s got a fuckin’ hickey. His _first_ fuckin’ hickey.

And he’s touching at it and thinking about it when Ian texts him.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (1:13 AM):** I’m home.

 **Mickey (1:13 AM):** Glad to hear you weren’t murdered by your Uber driver

 **Ian (1:14 AM):** Ian Gallagher lives to fight another day.

\------------------------------------------------------- 

Mickey smirks. Considers.

And with a shrug to himself, he types.

\------------------------------------------------------- 

**Mickey (1:15 AM):** Send me the pictures you took of us

 **Ian (1:15 AM):** Mickey, you fucking sap.

 **Mickey (1:15 AM):** 🖕

 **Ian (1:16 AM):** 😘

\------------------------------------------------------- 

The pictures come through a couple minutes later, and Mickey smiles as he opens each one.

He’s sent four total: the one he posted on Instagram, the one with Ian kissing his cheek, the fuckin’ awful one he took of Mickey standing by the observation deck window, and the one Mickey took of him and Jovi.

And well, that last one.

He zooms in on it, looks at the happiness on Ian’s face as he holds the cat, and feels something warm bloom in his stomach.

In the picture, Ian’s cradling Jovi to his chest like a baby, and he’s got his nose pressed against the top of his furry head.

There’s a smile on his lips, and his eyes are closed, and Mickey just loves the hell outta this picture.

_Fuckin’ Ian, man._

He loves it so much that he maybe sets it as the lockscreen on his phone. Knows it makes him a huge fuckin’ sap, just like Ian said in his text, but well. Who even cares? Who even cares at all?

\------------------------------------------------------- 

**Ian (1:19 AM):** Hey. I forgot to ask.

 **Ian (1:19 AM):** Are you still planning to come to the Gallagher 4th of July party? It’s next Saturday.

\------------------------------------------------------- 

It’s a big step, maybe. Meeting Ian’s family.

He sorta knows Lip already, though he hasn’t seen him in years and they weren’t exactly friends. He knows about Fiona. Follows the younger Gallaghers on Instagram.

Maybe it’ll be okay. 

He takes a deep, anxious breath.

\------------------------------------------------------- 

**Mickey (1:21 AM):** Yeah, I’ll be there

 **Ian (1:21 AM):** Can’t wait.

 **Ian (1:21 AM):** But also, I kinda wanna see you sooner? 

\------------------------------------------------------- 

Mickey wants to see him again right now.

\------------------------------------------------------- 

**Mickey (1:22 AM):** You can come over whenever you want, man

\------------------------------------------------------- 

And it makes his heart race to type, and it feels weird and out of the ordinary for him to extend an open invitation to someone.

But really, after what happened tonight, he thinks Ian could bust down his door at three in the morning, and he wouldn't give a fuck.

\------------------------------------------------------- 

**Ian (1:23 AM):** Cool.

 **Ian (1:23 AM):** Same, by the way. Y’know, if you find yourself jogging by my place again.

 **Mickey (1:23 AM):** Ok

\------------------------------------------------------- 

Mickey blows out a breath. 

He _knows_ what they’re doing.

Obviously, they’re talking about hanging out more, but they’re also talking about having more _sex_. They’re gonna do it on the Fourth of July, but Ian also wants to do it throughout the week.

 _Fuck_.

Mickey Milkovich has a fuckin’ _boyfriend_. And he’s in a relationship that’s both sexual and romantic.

It’s been a hell of a year.

And to think that he so easily could’ve missed the kestrel app. To think that he so easily could’ve missed _Ian_.

He’d missed him when they were kids, when Ian was that dumb, starry-eyed, freckly ginger at the Kash and Grab, when Ian was friends with Mandy and came over more than once to study.

They could’ve gone their whole lives together, maybe, if they’d known then what they know now.

Mickey could’ve lost everything before he even had it, could’ve never had a chance to know Ian at all if he’d just skipped over the kestrel ad on the porn site.

One click. _One_ fucking click. Changed his entire fuckin’ life.

And it _has_ been a hell of a year. Since January, Mickey’s been kissed and been touched, has had at least some sex so far, has gotten his very first fuckin’ hickey.

Has fallen in love with someone who he really, really thinks might love him back.

 _One_ fucking click.

Mickey closes his eyes for a moment, just taking it in.

\------------------------------------------------------- 

**Ian (1:25 AM):** Night, Mickey. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.

 **Mickey (1:25 AM):** Night

\------------------------------------------------------- 

And well, Mickey usually waits for Ian to send it first. He waits for him to send it, and then he sends back the black one.

But tonight? Tonight, Mickey’s been _touched_. Been loved by another body. Been kissed until he can’t think straight.

\------------------------------------------------------- 

**Mickey (1:26 AM):** ❤️️

\------------------------------------------------------- 

He chooses red because receiving red makes him lose his breath. He hopes it does the same to Ian.

\------------------------------------------------------- 

**Ian (1:26 AM):** ❤️️

 **Ian (1:26 AM):** So much.

\------------------------------------------------------- 

His heart leaps into his throat.

He’s light. He floats. He’s a cloud.

He closes his eyes, and he holds his breath, and his gut, his mind, his heart, are filled with _so much_. 

So much, so much, and not nearly enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some facts for Chapter 14:  
> -I want to thank [Steorie](https://twitter.com/Steorie/status/1269269966332678146?s=20), ArtofOBSESSION ([1](https://twitter.com/ArtofOBSESSION/status/1265777601911549952?s=20), [2](https://twitter.com/ArtofOBSESSION/status/1269321757237768192?s=20)), and captainbaekho ([1](https://twitter.com/captainbaekho/status/1266985529423388672?s=20), [2](https://twitter.com/captainbaekho/status/1267253252502040577?s=20), [3](https://twitter.com/captainbaekho/status/1268349579969343488?s=20), [4](https://twitter.com/captainbaekho/status/1269165355945115648?s=20)) for the absolutely _incredible_ Chapter 13 art that I’m losing my mind over. ❤️️❤️️❤️️ Please give them some love!
> 
> -I also want to thank mimilaroo for the plant/philodendron suggestion! Mickey is now a proud plant dad thanks to you!
> 
> -Black lives matter. And they don’t just matter now, but they matter always. Do what you can to help. Please check out [this page](https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/) to find petitions you can sign (remember to confirm your signature in your email) and people you can call or email.
> 
> To all of my black readers, followers, and friends: I love you, and I stand with you. ❤️️
> 
> Gray


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Explosions. Fortunes. Love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which there are fireworks.
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading. This is the longest chapter yet. Again. Hope you enjoy.

It's strange, maybe.

But when Mickey sees Ian's red heart emoji--Ian's _So much_ \--all he can think about is his mom. 

Once his heart has slowed, once the heat in his skin has burned its way out and is now resting comfortably at a low simmer, he _sees_ her--her blonde hair, her blue eyes, her thin arms with pinpricks and bruises at the bends of the elbows.

He only remembers her vaguely, really, as she was gone before he had a chance to grow up. Gone before he had a chance to see her as a human being rather than simply a figure who provided him with _care_. 

But he remembers she was beautiful, and he remembers she did everything she fucking could within the confines of her miserable existence--full of verbal, physical, and mental abuse--to give her kids some semblance of happiness. 

Mickey was attached to her in a way Terry said, voice dripping with contempt, would make him grow up to be a pillow-biter. He was always small, and he always felt ignored by his brothers, by his dad, but she made him feel important. 

He would follow her around sometimes, sitting on the kitchen floor with his toys while she cooked, sneaking into bed with her when it was noon, and she was sleeping too late, and he wondered why she wasn't up yet. Sitting by her on the couch, running his tiny fingers over the purply-blue marks on the skin of her arms, her wrists, wondering if they hurt.

Terry thought she was making Mickey soft, but all he knows is that he loved her, and he felt safe with her, and she used to scoop him up and cuddle him in her lap and kiss his head.

She used to tell him she loved him.

For the better part of his life, she was the only one who ever had, really. And when she was gone, that was gone, as well.

He went nearly twenty years without hearing it again.

Mrs. Callaghan was the first person to say it after all that time. He'd known her for about six months, and she had just taken a sneaky, shameful drag off Mickey's cigarette, murmuring all the while that she hadn't smoked in forty years. 

It was November, and they were sitting out on the little deck off the side of her apartment, the two of them having just finished ridding the yard of autumn detritus. And somehow, between drags, murmurs, and laughs, the conversation had turned soft and personal.

"You're not going anywhere for Thanksgiving, Mickey?" she asked, handing back the cigarette. Her voice was weak from stifling a smoke-induced cough.

Mickey took a long drag before shaking his head as he blew the smoke out his nostrils. "Ain't really got a place to go."

He hadn't explicitly told her about his family, but he suspected she knew the gist of it, anyway--had deduced it from his knuckle tats and his social isolation and the fact that he never, ever spoke of them.

He looked at her, then, and she reached out a hand. The cigarette was on its last leg, and he was about to tell her so, thinking she wanted another drag, when she took him by the forearm, instead. Gave him a squeeze.

"Lovebug, you're having Thanksgiving with me," she said, and it was so matter-of-fact that he could do nothing but shrug. Nod.

It was a few minutes later when he got up to leave, pocketing his pack of cigarettes and gardening gloves.

"See ya," he said simply, giving Mrs. C. a tight smile. But she wasn't having it. 

She stood, groaning from knee pain, and tugged on his jacket until he turned to accept a hug that felt safe, that felt warm, that felt a little like his mom's love, maybe. Like he was four years old and Laura Milkovich had him cuddled against her in the way she always did, stroking his hair and smiling because he was her little Mickey, her little boy.

"I love you, Mickey," Mrs. C. said to him, giving him a rubbing pat on the back. "And I'm here if you ever need to talk to a mom, or a grandma, or just an arthritic old lady."

He exhaled shakily, and he sniffed, and he rolled his eyes at her a little but couldn't quite fight the small smile blooming across his face.

And now, eight months after that, he's got Ian, and Ian didn't say _I love you_ , but he said ❤️️ _So much._ and it hit at Mickey's heart, at his lungs, at his belly in a way that felt _so much_ like love--that felt like hope and happiness and peace, maybe. Security. 

Like Ian feels something for him _so much_ and in such a manner that Mickey is safe and warm and scooped up and cuddled and kissed on the head in a way he hasn't been since he was a small child.

Like Ian feels something for him in an entirely _new_ way, too. 

Because it's all of those things, but it's also the _so much_ of a boyfriend, of a lover, of someone he thinks he may want to share his life with, _build_ a life with, _be_ with in a way he never before thought was possible for him.

It's the impossible _so much_ of the sixteen-year-old kid in his bedroom, who hadn't heard an _I love you_ in ten years, who had no hope of those words in any situation, in any context, familial or romantic. 

And no matter what the heart means--no matter if it means _I like you_ or _I feel affection toward you_ or _I'm thinking of you_ , _I care for you_ , or maybe, maybe, can it be, _I love you_ \--the fact that it's _so much_ , so much, so much makes Mickey bite his lip. Press his palms over his eyes.

Makes him get his phone on the way back from the bathroom at four in the morning and look at it again before he can fall back asleep.

\---

Ian works all weekend, but they manage to stay in touch in a way that makes Mickey wonder if it's the new normal--if it's how _couples_ stay in contact while apart. 

For months now, they've been texting consistently throughout each day in snatches--mornings, lunch breaks, after work, late at night--but their conversations were so often thorough and involved, with a clear focus and a _reason_ for it, an _I need to tell you something_ conversation, or an _I'm horny_ conversation, or an _I sorta wanna flirt with you right now_ conversation.

But their texts now are shorter and sweeter--are familiar, _comfortable_ , are loaded with the understanding that they'll be in person soon, and during that time, they can talk and kiss and get off together as much as they want.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (7:12 AM):** I know you're still asleep, but I just wanted to say good morning. ❤️️ 

**Ian (7:12 AM):** Talk later?

 **Mickey (11:01 AM):** Yeah I'll call you tonight 

\-------------------------------------------------------

And then, after a quick _should I-shouldn't I_ :

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (11:02 AM):** ❤️️

\-------------------------------------------------------

Because why not, anymore.

It's his boyfriend, and he's into him, and well, that red heart means affection. Fondness. I'm thinking of you. I like you. I care for you.

 _I love you_ , maybe.

And Mickey stares at Ian's message, at Ian's name, at the little circle of his contact photo--the cheek-kiss picture, whatever, shut the fuck up--and he feels every fuckin' one of those things and then some.

He does call him that night, and they talk for nearly two hours about absolutely nothing of importance--just enjoy one another's company as they try to make each other's quiet, lonely apartment feel a little less quiet, a little less lonely.

In the time in between his talks with Ian, Mickey spends the weekend putting the final touches on his living space upgrade. In the bathroom, he installs a rain showerhead, and he watches a YouTube tutorial on how to increase the water pressure in his toilet. 

In the living room, he organizes his DVD and video game collection and rents a steam-cleaner that he takes to all of his rugs, carpeting, and furniture cushions. And then, while he's out returning it, he buys some coasters, a couple new towels and washcloths, and a gray chenille blanket to toss over the back of the couch.

Again, he knows what he's doing, but well. It is what it is, isn't it? Mickey has a fuckin' boyfriend he wants with him, on him, in him, beside him, and this is what his life is now.

He's too happy to quit. Too happy to pretend.

\---

He shows Ian the new additions over FaceTime on Sunday night.

"Your showerhead makes me feel things," Ian says, munching on a chip.

Mickey snorts and sits down on the edge of the tub. "My showerhead's gettin' ya hard?"

"Yeah. That's _exactly_ what I meant by that." Ian bounces his eyebrows and tosses in another chip. "I apologize if you ever end up in my shower. The water pressure sucks ass."

"I think your entire apartment sucks ass, man."

"It's old." Ian shrugs, chewing. "And I don't really care enough about it to make any actual changes. Probably can't, anyway, since I'm leasing and don't get special treatment from _my_ landlady." 

Mickey flips him off. "What's your rent, anyway?"

"Nine-hundred."

"You're gettin' scammed."

"Feels like it, but that's fuckin' _cheap_ , man, in comparison to other shit I've seen. Gentrification's a bitch."

Mickey thumbs at his nose and sniffs. "Yeah, well."

" _Well_ , you got lucky as fuck in the housing situation. To pay five-hundred dollars a month for a decent-sized apartment is like, fairytale shit in 2020 Southside." Ian takes a drink from a bottle of Dasani. "Congratulations."

And yeah, it's true. Ian may be in the better location--his building closer to food, some shops, and the L station--but Mickey's undoubtedly got the better overall setup, with the added advantage of a landlady who sometimes cooks him food and tells him she loves him.

Mickey stands from where he's been perched on the side of the tub and gets a cigarette from the pack in his pocket. 

He hasn't told Ian this, but he's been trying to smoke less. 

He's gone through periods in his life where he's been up to a pack a day, but over the past couple of weeks, he's cut down to seven or eight cigarettes in a twenty-four hour period. 

He's not quitting-- _fuck no_ \--but Ian's been cutting back and trying to quit for months, and y'know, it's not the worst thing in the fuckin' world to have a better tasting mouth, maybe.

Mickey heads into his bedroom and opens his window--something else he's been doing since he went through all the trouble of buying goddamn _candles_ so his apartment would smell better--and talks to Ian as he has cigarettes six and seven.

They finish up discussing their apartments, then talk about Ian's day at work. And by the time the conversation's ending, Mickey's stretched out on his bed with the cat on his stomach, and it's nearing midnight.

"So, I'm off tomorrow," Ian mentions, stopping in-between the last two words to yawn. He looks cute as fuck, and it's only heightened when he runs his hand through his hair, rumpling it enough that he gets a bit of it sticking up.

Mickey smiles at him, and he must look like a fuckin' starry-eyed kid because Ian's face softens in response. 

"Wanna have lunch?" Ian asks then, voice flawlessly accepting the late-night transition to gentleness. "I'll meet you in the food court."

And Mickey's stomach twists at that, and he has to bite back an even larger smile because, well, this shit's _real_. This shit's _lunch date_ real. _Coming to Mickey's work_ real. _Joining their worlds_ real.

"Yeah," he says, running a hand through his hair, pushing back a bit at the front that had flopped forward over his forehead. "Might need longer than twenty minutes, though. I'll see if I can get Sean to cover for me so I can take a longer break."

" _That_ sounded suggestive." Ian smirks. "Chill out, Mick. I was only suggesting eating _food_."

Mickey flips him off, but he's _blushing_ , goddammit, and he blows out an entirely obvious breath because why the fuck not? It's not as if Ian doesn't _know_.

He knows. He _absolutely_ knows because--

" _Wow_ , you're cute," he says in a goofy voice, smiling. "Have I told you that recently?"

Mickey rolls his eyes. "I think you have, fuckhead."

"Oh, and he's _sweet_ , too. Man, I know how to pick ‘em."

"Stop."

Ian cups his chin with his hand. "Hm. Lemme think. _Uhhh_ , no."

"What shit makes _you_ blush?" Mickey asks, mouth curling into a smile despite the grumpiness in his voice.

"You'll have to find out."

"Oh yeah?"

Ian nods and leans, elbow to the couch armrest and the side of his head resting on his curled fist. "Yeah."

Mickey stares at him, a smile in his eyes and on his lips, cheeks pink. "Can't wait," he says, raising his eyebrows in challenge.

\---

\---

As much as Sean's an annoying motherfucker who wears his heterosexuality on his sleeve, he's actually pretty okay when it comes to doing shit for his coworkers. 

Mickey manages--without too much trouble--to talk him into getting his lunch to-go and donating ten minutes of his break to Mickey, who is now able to meet Ian at eleven-fifty instead of noon.

When he arrives at the food court, he spies Ian at the table in the back, their two Panda Express lunches spread out neatly across from each other. He's got on a [dark green short-sleeve button-down](https://i.ibb.co/vwsf2SJ/Screen-Shot-2020-06-17-at-1-06-11-PM.png) with medium-wash jeans and brown boots, and he looks good.

And well, Mickey may not feel as bone-liquidizingly nervous at the sight of him--having his dick in his mouth got rid of that _real_ fuckin' quick--but his heart gives a kick and his stomach gives a twist and this overwhelming softness comes over him as he watches Ian take a picture of their food on his phone.

At that, Mickey smiles, and he takes out his own phone, waiting for Ian's text to come in.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (11:52 AM):** Your lunch awaits.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey opens up the camera, zooms in on Ian sitting at the table, and snaps a creeper shot. He sends it.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (11:53 AM):** Is this guy my lunch?

\-------------------------------------------------------

Ian looks up then, and Mickey walks over to him, a grin on his face.

"We're eating _food_ , Mickey," Ian says in faux-exasperation, pushing back in his chair to stand. And his cheeks are fuckin' _pink_.

Mickey snorts. "Uh huh."

"I'm not blushing." He stands. "I'm overheated. It's hot as fuck outside."

"Sure." Mickey bites his bottom lip, holding back this pure and utter happiness that threatens to explode out his rib cage as Ian walks forward and wraps his arms around his neck.

He smells fuckin' _good_ , like Dove Fresh & Clean body wash, and he's got Old Spice armpits that radiate heat when Mickey slides his arms around his upper chest.

And his mouth is cold from the iced pop he's been drinking and tastes citrusy, like Sprite.

It's a quick kiss, nothing more than a two-second lip-press, but it's loud on the pull-back and Ian's smile afterward is like the goddamn _sun_.

"Hey," Mickey murmurs in the space between their faces, and Ian must see something in his eyes because he leans in again and nuzzles his forehead with his nose before they part.

"We're killin' the PDA part of our relationship," Ian comments, having a seat on his side of the table.

Mickey smirks and falls into his chair. "‘cause you can't keep your lips off me."

Ian kicks him under the table. "Sure. Except you're the one who initiated the kiss just then."

Mickey shrugs and opens up his container of Beijing Beef. "Whatever you say."

Before all this, Mickey's pretty sure he'd never flirted in his entire fuckin' life. But he can't get enough of it with Ian--is addicted to the high of it, the burst of energy, the rush of feel-good hormones it gives him.

They continue their flirtatious conversation, playfully arguing over who's initiated most of their kisses as they make their way through their Panda Express. And at some point, when Mickey's got his fork in Ian's box of orange chicken, stealing a piece without asking, he just thinks, _fuck, I like you._

And his brain doesn't even mean it _romantically_ in this particular instance, though it's obviously that, too. He just really, really fuckin' _likes_ him. Likes being around him, likes talking to him, likes flirting with him, likes stealing his fuckin' food and watching the narrow-eyed look he gives him in return.

Likes pretending to stab him with a fork when Ian retaliates by reaching into Mickey's box with his bare fingers and taking a piece of beef.

"You fuckin' dick!" Mickey complains, watching Ian shove the food into his mouth and, with a pleased smirk, suck the sauce off his fingers.

Ian grasps Mickey's shoe with both of his feet.

"Do you wanna come over Wednesday?" he asks then, pushing and pulling at Mickey's foot. "I mean, you can come over anytime, but I've got some kestrel shit tonight and tomorrow night, so I figured you wouldn't wanna, like, be there for it."

Mickey rolls his lips into his mouth.

And it's fine, _it's fine_ , but he's kind of decided once and for all that he fuckin' hates it, and well. _It is what it is, isn't it?_

"Yeah," he says, relaxing his leg and letting Ian playfully steer it around under the table. "I can come after work."

His voice sounds deflated, maybe, and by the way Ian's eyebrows lower for a second, he thinks he's picked up on it. 

Ian stares at him for a minute, like he's trying to figure him out, and then drops his foot and shifts around so he can pull his phone from his pocket.

"Cool." He smiles down at his phone, and Mickey watches his thumbs press and swipe. "I'm gonna take the night off so it's just us."

"You don't gotta do that, man," Mickey murmurs, putting down his fork. "If you needed to, you could do your thing. I'd just--"

" _Mickey_." And it's the soft _Mickey_ but with an edge of pleading. "I'm not gonna do shit with other guys in front of you."

Mickey sighs--a deep, slow inhale that raises his shoulders, straightens his back, followed by a quick exhale. He shrugs. "I mean, fuck, make a buck when ya can."

Ian lowers his hands, and therefore his phone, to his lap. "Are you okay with me doin' this?"

Mickey opens his mouth, but before he can speak, Ian continues.

"Not like, ‘okay' as in wantin' me to make money. ‘Okay' as in cool with me jerkin' off for other men."

"I'm okay with it." Mickey sniffs. Picks up his drink and takes a sip.

Ian studies him for a moment, eyes moving back and forth from one to the other as if trying to read him. "If you're not okay with it, Mick, I'll quit, y'know."

Mickey rolls his eyes, this _stop bein' fuckin' ridiculous_ eye roll.

"Just tell me, okay?" Ian takes a sip of his own drink. "Like, this shit doesn't matter to me. It's easy money, and it's money for my savings. But just because it doesn't matter to me doesn't mean it doesn't matter to you." He shrugs. "Tell me if it bothers you. I know my body's mine and all that shit, but you're my boyfriend, and I want you to have an opinion, y'know?"

After watching him for a minute, Mickey rubs a hand over his face, then replies, "You're makin' like, hundreds of dollars off this shit. It'd be fuckin' stupid to stop just for me."

"But I would." Ian works his mouth for a moment, then says, "‘cause I care about you. And how you feel."

His face goes all soft, then, and Mickey's lips turn up, gently, gently. "Whatever," he says, and he gives him a kick under the table. "I'll let you know if it ever fuckin' bothers me."

"Thanks."

"Soft bitch."

Ian shrugs. "Maybe." His eyes find Mickey's, and it's that smiley, flirtatious look again, even though his mouth is straight, serious. "But it's just ‘cause I like you." A smile starts to slip out. "I'm pretty fuckin' tough."

"You sayin' I turned you into a fuckin' sap?"

"I think you turned me all kinds of ways."

Mickey casually looks down at his phone, and he really needs to go, but _fuck_. He doesn't wanna leave this.

"Turned you how?" he asks, and he bites at the corner of his bottom lip as he listens to Ian's response.

"All the good ways." He smiles, and he reaches a hand out to touch at Mickey's wrist, like he just wants to feel it--feel the skin, the bones. "This is like, peak happiness in my life so far, y'know?"

Mickey drops open his mouth to breathe. "Yeah," he says, and he doesn't even think about it when he says it. Just tugs his arm a little until Ian's fingers work their way down to his hand. He tangles their fingers together, and he blows out a breath, and he says, "Peak fuckin' happiness, man."

\---

Mickey ends up having to rush off a few minutes later, as he's late, so their goodbye consists only of Ian pressing a half-second peck of a kiss to his temple and offering to dump his trash for him.

But when he's back in the security office, clocking back in on the computer, Ian texts him.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (12:37 PM):** Wear your uniform to my place on Wednesday. You look hot.

 **Ian (12:38 PM):** Also, I'm serious about the kestrel thing. 

**Ian (12:38 PM):** If it ever bothers you, just tell me.

 **Mickey (12:39 PM):** Noted 👍

\-------------------------------------------------------

It _does_ fuckin' bother him, really. 

He's decided that he hates it, and he's decided that it bothers him, but he's also decided that Ian pays nine-hundred fuckin' dollars a month in rent, and he's making almost five-hundred off his Gold Package clients, and Mickey'd feel like a selfish asshole if he told him to stop.

He's thinking about this shit when Sean pushes into the office.

"How'd your date with your lady go?" he asks, heading over to the coffee maker.

Mickey glances at his back. Bites his lip. Considers.

And well, fuck it. Who fuckin' cares?

"It's a guy," he says, nervously fidgeting with the cuffs attached to his belt. "My boyfriend."

Sean turns to him with his eyebrow raised, and Mickey's half expecting him to spout off some homophobic bullshit just because he looks the type.

But well, all he says is, "Oh yeah?"

Mickey nods. Rubs at the back of his neck. "Yeah."

Sean shrugs. "That's cool, bro. Happy for ya."

He turns back around to make his coffee, and Mickey stares at the back of his head for the longest time before murmuring, "Yeah. Thanks," and putting in his earbuds in preparation for doing his rounds.

\---

\---

Mickey's summer uniform consists of a short-sleeved version of his navy button-down and khaki shorts instead of pants. He still wears his [brown boots](https://i.ibb.co/M5BH5vz/s-l300.jpg) with about an inch of his navy socks peeking up over the top, and well, apparently Ian thinks he looks hot.

He'd just called him "cute" in his long-sleeved, long-pants version, so maybe he likes his legs? His arms?

Wednesday morning, Mickey showers, puts on a fuck-ton of deodorant--enough to last him throughout the day and night, hopefully--and gets dressed. He puts on regular boxers this time, though they're shorter and slimmer-cut than his regular mid-thigh length ones, and he kind of stares at himself in the mirror a little after he slides them up his hips. 

It's weird dressing with the knowledge that Ian's gonna be seein' all this shit later. And it's not like Mickey gives a fuck, really, what he's wearing or how he looks, maybe, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't want Ian to think he looks good. 

The extra time spent on his appearance this morning makes him run a little behind, so once he's dressed, he grabs a couple blueberry breakfast muffins Mrs. C. had made him, fills up his coffee tumbler, and heads out.

Work is boring as fuck--made even more so by the fact that Mickey's filled to the brim with nervous excitement over his and Ian's date that night--and if it weren't for the vicious fight in Bed Bath & Beyond that allowed Mickey to bring out his cuffs, he thinks his day would've been a total wash.

\---

He gets to Ian's at a little after six, and he ends up standing outside his door for nearly two full minutes, trying to calm his heart, his breath, before knocking.

It takes Ian thirty seconds to answer the door, and when he does, it's like someone's popped the lid on a can of chaos. 

Ian looks hot, dressed in a [gray tank top](https://i.ibb.co/Xswmy4M/Cd1w-RCd-WAAAa7-Lt-format-jpg-name-large.jpg) and those baggy black basketball shorts--clearly just chilling after work--and he's got the TV on and [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kqot8uyJ3LI) playing loud on the bluetooth speaker in the kitchen, and Mickey feels a bit like he's walking into a zoo.

"Hi," Ian whispers, face a beam of fuckin' light, taking him by the arms and gently tugging him forward, over the threshold and into a kiss.

It's softer than the one at Monday's lunch had been--Ian's main objective being to suck at Mickey's bottom lip, apparently--but it's still short and sweet, and it leaves a blooming warmth in Mickey's belly.

"Hey," he says in response, touching at Ian's upper arms, which are ultra-pale and freckly and hard with muscle.

Ian lifts them up and rests his forearms on Mickey's shoulders, exposing the ginger hair at his pits, and Mickey holds on to his biceps and presses back into another kiss.

He's getting more confident at it, is learning Ian's mouth, Ian's kissing style, what makes him pause to exhale and what makes him laugh in warm little puffs out his nose.

Mickey gives him a sucking kiss over his upper lip, and Ian presses his forearms down on Mickey's shoulders and touches his fingers to the sides of his head, combing through the hair there and rubbing his fingers against the velvety, buzzed bits of his fade.

Ian's mouth tastes like a Reese's Cup, maybe, this chocolate, peanut butter mix, and his tongue's sweet when he licks just the littlest bit into Mickey's mouth.

"Alright, alright," Mickey mumbles against his lips after a minute, laughing and pushing him away. 

Ian laughs back and moves in again, and the two of them spend the next thirty seconds kissing in teasing pecks and shoving at each other.

Ian gets him against the wall at one point, entwines their fingers, and pins them up above Mickey's head.

"Dick," Mickey says, but it's completely heatless, and all he does is smile and pant, squeeze at his fingers and make a series of breathy sounds when Ian bends down and sucks and licks at his neck and behind his left ear.

It tickles, and Ian's tongue is wet and warm, and Mickey's a little worried about a visible hickey when he's got two more days of work this week in a set uniform. But _fuck_ , if it doesn't turn up the fuckin' heat in his body, somewhere deep inside--in his belly, his pelvis, his balls--vibrating like a goddamn live wire.

Ian lets his arms go slack, and Mickey drops them, unlaces their fingers, and touches at the sides of Ian's face, instead, rubbing his hands over the barely-there prickles of his six o'clock stubble and, with a gentle pressure, pulling him up, up, until Mickey can get at his mouth.

He kisses him, and it's tongue-filled and soft, and when he's done, he moves his hands to Ian's chest, gives him a little _scritch-scritch_ into the hair peeking up over the neck of his tank-top, and presses him away.

Ian actually relents this time, but he's smirking as he bounces his eyebrows at Mickey and then leads him into the kitchen, where [Ice Cube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZvfH0PtLdUM) is now playing over the speaker.

"Okay. Dinner," Ian says, opening the fridge and pulling out some ingredients.

They're making [mustard-maple salmon](https://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/food-network-kitchen/mustard-maple-roasted-salmon-recipe-2112041) with [herb and garlic roasted potatoes](https://www.mccormick.com/recipes/salads-sides/garlic-and-herb-roasted-potatoes). Ian's already got the oven preheated and the baby red potatoes quartered, so all they really need to do is prep the food for the oven.

And well, Mickey's never considered this shit, really. In his whole fuckin' life, he's never thought about the potential happy realities of cohabitation, of sharing a space and a life and a kitchen with another person. The theory, sure. But the practice?

Flicking water at each other after washing your hands at the sink. Digging together through messy cabinets in order to find elusive little McCormick spice bottles. Casually talking about the music playing through the speaker. Sharing a beer. Your boyfriend leaving to go pee and coming back [dancing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0yBnIUX0QAE) in this swaying, spinning, shoulder-rocking way that makes you roll your eyes but press a smiling kiss to his cheek once he's back beside you.

All the good things. _All the good ways_ you've turned each other.

"Thought you didn't know how to cook?" Mickey asks half-way through his process of helping prep the salmon, squinting at the recipe screenshot Ian's texted him.

The potatoes are in the oven, and the scent of the garlic and herbs is infiltrating the apartment, making everything feel safe and warm--this winter-like coziness in the middle of summer.

"Literally never said that. Just said I usually _didn't_." Ian hops up on the countertop and sits beside the pan of salmon.

"So all those times I needed to _help_ you--"

"Just me tryin' to get in your pants."

Mickey looks up at him and smirks. "Dick."

"Worked, though." Ian smiles, and it's sweet and soft but with just a hint of flirtation. "I did, in fact, get in your pants."

"Fuck you."

"You cute, blushy motherfucker."

Mickey takes a step to the side so he's standing directly in front of Ian, who parts his legs so Mickey can get in close.

He's got a mustard mixture on his hands, so he can't touch him, but he does press up on his tiptoes a little and accept three brief, gentle kisses on the lips.

After that, he coaxes Ian into actually getting off his ass and doin' some of the salmon prep with him, and together, they make something that looks passably _good_ , even in its uncooked stage.

There's still ten minutes left on the oven timer for the potatoes, and then there'll be about ten minutes for the salmon. 

"Dance with me?" Ian asks once they've washed and dried their hands. He comes up behind Mickey, touches his hands to his waist, and presses his lips to the back of his neck. 

Mickey can feel the soft puffs of breath on his skin as Ian breathes him in.

"Fuckin' soft, man," he mumbles, turning in Ian's arms. "I don't fuckin' dance."

"That's fine," Ian replies, draping his forearms over Mickey's shoulders like he'd done during their make-out session earlier. "Just like, stand here, and I'll use you as a prop." 

And his voice is soft, soft, and he's smiling in a sweet and teasing way, and there's [a song about _real love_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IOspC5B69L4) playing over the speaker.

It's not a slow song, and it's probably something Mrs. C. would love to dance to, really, and well, Mickey touches his hands to Ian's narrow waist and presses a kiss to his collarbone, and he fuckin' lets him dance with him.

He _does_ move a little, maybe, but not as much as Ian, who's pressing their foreheads together and swaying from side to side to the beat of the song.

But he squeezes at his waist for a minute, and then slides his arms up until they're wrapped around Ian's torso, and he holds him and holds him and leans back and forth a little, gently, just rocking, as the song plays.

And he's dancing in the kitchen with his boyfriend, and he'd thought he might feel stupid, but he really fuckin' _doesn't_. He feels breathless, maybe, and possibly _loved_ \--the tip of his nose pressed against Ian's, Ian's upturned lips brushing against his periodically in soft whispers of kisses.

But mostly, _mostly_ he just feels happy.

\---

\---

The food is actually really fuckin' great.

The two of them plate everything together and sit down at Ian's kitchen table, which is too large for the space it occupies. 

Once they're seated, Ian opens up his Spotify account and switches from his "Misc." playlist to something softer and acoustic, and Mickey would've grumbled at it if Ian hadn't turned down the volume so low that there's only a pleasant murmur filling some of the apartment's quiet.

"We did a fuckin' good job," Ian comments, spearing a potato. 

Mickey nods and _hm_ s. "Cookin's pretty easy, man." Shrugs. "Just not much point in doin' it all the time when you live by yourself."

"Or when you have a landlady who cooks for you."

"You're fuckin' _obsessed_ with my landlady."

Ian sips off of his Vanilla Coke and takes a second to wash down a bite of food. "I wanna _meet_ your landlady."

"Why the _hell_ do you wanna meet Mrs. Callaghan?"

Ian shrugs and shovels in another potato. "I dunno," he says with his mouth full. "She like, takes care of you and shit."

Mickey rolls his eyes. "Whatever." He forks off a piece of salmon and takes a bite. "She wants to meet you too, man."

"You told her about me?" Ian sounds so fuckin' _happy_ , his face lighting up.

Mickey makes a _So what if I did, bitch?_ face and waves his fingers in the air.

They're quiet for a moment, the only sounds being the scraping of utensils on plates and [the murmur of music in the background](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SHXYn9MCa08). 

Mickey takes a drink of his beer and clears his throat. Contemplates. 

And then, with a quirk of his mouth, he says, "You can like, sleep over on Saturday if you want. I mean, like, after we go to the Fourth of July thing."

Ian smiles. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Mickey sniffs and stabs his fork inelegantly through a potato. "I sometimes have breakfast with Mrs. C. on weekend mornings if I get up early enough and if I'm not--"

"Jerkin' off with me."

Mickey shrugs. "Whatever."

And Ian just looks at him and chews his food, and with a closed-mouth smile that cracks his whole face, says, "Can't wait." 

He pauses, as if for effect, before adding, "As long as we still get to fool around before breakfast."

Mickey wants to say, _If we get started Saturday night, I doubt we'll even stop before breakfast_.

But instead, he simply smiles down into his plate as he forks up his last bite of salmon.

\---

\---

They pack away the leftovers together, shoveling everything into two Tupperware containers that Ian places in the fridge, and then they stand there in the middle of the kitchen and stare at each other.

Ian's finally disconnected his Spotify account from the bluetooth speaker, so everything's quiet. Too quiet, almost. 

Mickey feels a little exposed, standing there under the overhead lights of the kitchen in his fuckin' work uniform. But Ian just looks at him and looks at him and smiles. 

And they're _going to_ have sex. Mickey can feel it--can feel it in the air, sort of, like there's an electric charge skimming his body and making his arm hairs stand on end. He blows out a breath, and Ian chuckles a little, knowing, fuckin' _knowing_.

"This probably isn't the most romantic way of goin' about it," Ian starts, taking Mickey by the waist and giving him a little squeeze. "But do ya wanna..." he tilts his head vaguely in the direction of his bedroom.

Mickey laughs out his nose in three puffs of breath, and his stomach's twisting, _twisting_ as Ian lowers his head and sucks a soft, open kiss onto his mouth. 

"Just, FYI," Ian continues in a whisper, breath hot against Mickey's lips. "I'm really new at this romance thing, so I'm probably awkward as fuck."

And well, _sure_. But Mickey thinks he's doing a pretty fuckin' good job.

He smiles, and he noses his way back to Ian's mouth, and they kiss for a while--slow, slow, and soft. Ian slides his hands from Mickey's waist down to his ass, and he plays around with the flaps on the back pockets of his uniform shorts as he sucks at Mickey's bottom lip and runs his tongue back and forth over it in a caress. 

Mickey gets his hands up under the back of Ian's tank top and starts to drag it upward, running his fingers up his spine and across his hard muscles, all that pale, freckled skin.

"Have you _ever_ been outside?" he teases, lowering his head to suck at the hollow of his throat, right at the base of his adam's apple. 

Ian snorts and gives Mickey's ass a squeeze before sliding his hands around to the front to play with his belt buckle. "Ha-ha, fuck you." 

He opens Mickey's belt, and the sound of the metal sliding against the leather is loud in the quiet of the apartment. "We have different skin tones, but you're as pale as I am."

"Mmhm. Sure."

Mickey's got Ian's tank top scrunched up under his armpits, and Ian's tugging Mickey's button-down out from where it's tucked into his khakis.

It's probably overly clunky and complicated, the way they're undressing each other. But this is their first time together with this, and they're kissing real slow, and every time they look at each other, it's with disbelief, maybe, like they can't process the fact that they're here. Doing this.

Together.

Mickey gives up on pulling off Ian's tank and, instead, slides his hands around to run up and down the hard, muscular plane of his stomach. _Fuckin' athletic asshole._

Ian bends his head and kisses him and kisses him, and Mickey sighs into it, relaxes into it, lets it consume him as he feels his shirt being unbuttoned from the collar down and feels the warm, smooth texture of the skin at Ian's sacrum as he slides his hands back around to _touch_.

By the time their kisses turn to gentle shoves in the general direction of Ian's bedroom, Mickey's got his shirt unbuttoned and his open belt jangling with each step, and Ian's shorts are a little askew where Mickey's been sliding his fingers a couple inches down the top, rubbing over the impossibly warm skin with the indentations from the band of Ian's underwear.

When they enter Ian's bedroom, the first thing Mickey notices is that the cam shit from a couple weeks ago is completely gone, apparently stored away--tripod, futon mattress, pillows, and all. 

They separate to undress themselves, and Ian clearly notices him looking at the empty floor, his eyes wandering across Mickey's face as he pulls off his top and starts to drag off his shorts and underwear.

He doesn't say anything, though, and the few moments it takes Mickey to shrug off his button-down, pull his white tank-top over his head, and unbutton his khakis are almost unbearably awkward, the sweet, comfortable silence previously only interrupted by the lippy sounds of kissing somehow long gone.

Some of the tension is dispelled, though, when Ian, now naked as the day he was born, drops down and starts unlacing Mickey's boots.

Mickey can't help but laugh as he unzips, and then he's wiggling his feet to get Ian to stop so he can do it himself.

"Alright, alright," Mickey says with a chuckle, walking over to have a seat on Ian's bed. 

And this _has to be_ the least romantic way to begin a sexual encounter, but like, what the fuck else do people do? Annoyingly laced-up boots don't disappear, and sometimes it's way easier for one person to undress than the other, and _fuck_ , maybe sometimes you've got one butt-naked dude sitting cross-legged on the bed, waiting with a smirk on his face while the other takes literally three whole additional minutes to take off his shoes and shorts.

"Unfair advantage," Mickey declares in an accusatory fashion, tossing his boots out into the middle of the floor and standing to slide off the rest of his clothes.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Ian murmurs, and the next thing Mickey knows, he's being wrestled onto the bed.

And it's fuckin' _different_ having a completely naked man on top of your completely naked body, Mickey realizes, having only their partially-clothed encounter from the previous Saturday in his frame of reference.

He feels Ian's mostly-soft cock and the prickle of his pubic hair against his thigh, feels the fuzz on his belly brushing against his pelvis and the smooth, solid, hard-soft weight of his torso against his own, pressing down on his stomach, pressing down on his ribs.

Ian kisses him, and Mickey gets his hands in his hair, and suddenly, this is the realest, truest thing Mickey's ever experienced.

He wants to say _fuck, fuck_ because Ian's tongue's in his mouth, and his hands are grasping for Mickey's, fingers are locking with his and pinning them down on either side of Mickey's head, and everything's soft and wet and full of hot, hot breath.

Ian releases his hands after a minute and starts to slowly kiss down his body.

And it's a little fuckin' _weird_ being completely naked for this. Mickey stares at the ceiling, and he blows out a breath and thinks about how this is actually the very first time he's ever been completely nude for a sexual encounter in his entire life.

But that thought only lasts about point-two seconds because suddenly, Ian's sucking on his nipples and then gently, gently pressing his teeth into the flesh at his sternum, and all Mickey can do is exhale in loud pants that fill the room and get his hands up to touch at Ian's hair.

He thinks about the hickey and how it's only just slightly faded, and he groans a bit when Ian drags his tongue down his stomach, stopping for a moment to kiss over his freckle and then his navel.

"Didn't realize I left that big a mark," Ian murmurs before pressing his mouth over the hickey and giving it a series of playful, smacking little kisses.

"You fuckin' sucker-fish," Mickey replies, breath soft with both arousal and affection. 

Ian _awww_ s flirtatiously and presses another kiss to it. "Poor you."

Mickey kicks at him, hitting him somewhere on the thigh, and Ian gives an exaggerated _ow!_ before lowering his head and placing a _fuckin' sucker-fish_ kiss to the side of his dick.

And Mickey was half a breath away from saying something teasing when it happens, so he uses his already primed and ready voice to give a grunt that surprises him with its volume.

Ian fuckin' _laughs_ at it, this horny little laugh, and drags his tongue along the side of his cock and then down to lap at his balls.

"Don't come yet," Ian teases, and Mickey somehow manages to kick at him again, even through the sensation of a mouth kissing and licking his balls and up the crease of his thigh.

"What d'you take me for?" Mickey responds, but he's panting through it, and Ian shakes out a breath like he's an inch away from losing himself to giggles and then gently presses Mickey's cock straight up against his belly. He flattens his tongue and licks all the way upward, from base to tip.

 _Fuck_. 

Mickey moans a little--just this breathy thing that doesn't carry far--and brings his left hand to his face, running it up and down. Cupping over his mouth. He feels his breath beat hot and moist against his palm.

Ian gets his mouth around him then, using his right hand to direct his cock and stroke around the base. He drags his warm, wet tongue along Mickey's skin in _intensely good_ strokes as he slides his mouth up and down in gentle, gentle, slurping head bobs.

Mickey bites at the skin between his thumb and forefinger, adding a bit of pain to balance out the pleasure that grows and grows with each pass of Ian's mouth, with each pull-back and with each sucking kiss to that spot on the underside--right near the head--that makes Mickey weak.

He makes a gaspy sound after a minute, and he maybe feels stupid for it, but he can't help it, it's too good, too fucking good. And at that, Ian pulls back for a second and brings his head up, pressing his face and mouth to Mickey's belly and kissing him, sucking at his skin with what feels like a burst of affection.

Mickey almost expects him to blow a raspberry, but he doesn't. Instead, when he lifts his head again, he's smiling.

" _Mickey_ ," he murmurs with happy tenderness, giving him a soft, meaningful look before kissing his way down his happy trail and getting his mouth back around him.

Something inside of Mickey _pulses_ , then. He bites his lip and pushes a hard breath out his nose, and he's being so obvious, so fucking obvious that he starts to feel puffs of air against his cock where Ian's laughing quietly.

"Don't come yet," Ian says again, and it's smug as fuck and laced with amusement.

Mickey grumbles and murmurs, "Shut the fuck up," only to be met by a playful, lollipop-style lick that's abruptly aborted so Ian can lift his head and giggle.

"Stop makin' me laugh," he warns, bringing his face up to kiss with pure and utter affection against Mickey's hickey. He rests his chin on his abdomen for a second and looks up at him, grinning despite a clear attempt to school his face into something stern and scolding. "I don't _actually_ wanna bite your dick."

 _Mickey_ laughs at that, and then the two of them are losing it together, the bedroom filled with the sound of rumbling belly laughs.

Ian rolls off him and onto his back, and Mickey uses his regained ability to freely move his legs and kicks at him.

" _Why_ are you fucking kicking me?" Ian asks, voice happy and bright. He climbs upward and throws himself on top of Mickey in full-on wrestle mode. "I licked your cock and _this_ is the thanks I get?"

"‘ _Don't come yet_ ,'" Mickey mocks in a high-pitched voice, and Ian _snorts_ , grabs his arms, and rolls around with him.

"Oh, as if you weren't about to blow just then? I felt your dick throb."

Mickey gives a heave and flips Ian over until he's able to climb on top. And _fuck_ , he's cute. And it's really messing with the whole wrestling thing they've got goin' on, but Mickey leans down and pecks his upper lip before grumbling, "As if _you're_ not gonna be a fuckin' Two Pump Chump when you actually get in me."

Ian blows out a breath at that, and Mickey knows he's right.

"Am I wrong?" he asks, pushing it just _that_ much further.

"Fucker," Ian whispers, and the tone has gone soft, soft. He pulls his arms easily from where Mickey's got them in a loose pin and gets them up around his neck, instead.

Mickey lowers his head, slowly, slowly, and the kiss is just about the warmest thing he's ever experienced.

He's on top of Ian, and they're both hard, pressed together, and they're kissing in a way that just feels _good_ \--these hot, sucking kisses that sound slick, wet in the quiet of the bedroom.

Ian doesn't flip him, but he does tilt a little so that they're on their sides, Mickey's left leg hitched up around his waist.

" _Fuck_ , I like you," Ian whispers in the space between their mouths, and he's being stupid, _so_ stupid, _so_ dorky, but Mickey just closes his eyes and kisses him and wraps his left arm around his back.

Ian pulls away for a second, pausing to nuzzle at Mickey's nose, and then reaches blindly behind him with his right arm. Though Mickey can't see what he's doing, he can hear the drag of a drawer. 

When he twists back after a minute, he's got a tube of Astroglide gel, and Mickey can't help but smile because it's the fuckin' Astroglide tube he's seen Ian use a million times when they jerked off over FaceTime.

Ian wiggles around, getting his left arm out from under Mickey, and uses it to squirt a large dollop of gel in the palm of his right hand.

"Not that you need it," Ian teases, and he _immediately_ shrinks backward and squeezes his eyes shut, playfully bracing, _knowing_ Mickey's gonna smack him for it.

Which he does. Socks him right in the shoulder.

"Fuckin' hate you," Mickey grumbles, but he's laughing, and Ian just whispers, "Uh huh, sure ya do," and kisses his smile.

And this shit feels _great_.

Ian grasps both their dicks in his lubed right hand and, with a slow, slow exhale, strokes them together in a firm glide, spreading the gel all over their skin and making everything so wet and slippery.

And there's something about just lying there, arm around Ian's waist, as Ian's fingers rub up and down his dick that makes Mickey about lose it from the get-go, the sensation somehow so, _so_ radically different from the masturbation he's been engaging in for a good fourteen years of his life.

"Don't come yet," Ian whispers, leaning in to press his lips to Mickey's forehead.

"Mind your fuckin' business."

Ian blows out a breath of a laugh against his forehead and then skims his lips down the bridge of his nose to his lips, where he presses a smiley peck.

And for all the fact that Ian's being an annoying motherfucker-- _fuck_ , this is good. 

Mickey breathes out his mouth, shares breath with Ian, really, who's panting against his lips as his hand slides up and down, pauses every once in a while to pet at the slippery heads of their cocks with his fingertips, then starts up again.

It's slow, and it's fucking delicious, and Mickey's lost in it--closes his fuckin' eyes and just _breathes_ and breathes and occasionally groans--this soft, blissful groan Ian pulls from him.

Ian's letting out a series of _uh_ s, these barely-voiced moans that make some warm, unidentifiable place inside Mickey _throb_ , make his balls draw up, his cock pulse and tingle in a way that feels so _electric_ , so intensely amazing that he both wants to come all the fuck over Ian's belly and yet never stop feeling this build-up, this pleasure.

Ian's apparently feeling it, too, as he starts getting twitchy, starts moving his left arm, which is stretched out under his head, like he wants to grab at something, and he begins to bow his back, scrunching inward in the way he always does when he's about to lose it.

Mickey kisses him, and it's understandably lacking any and all coordination, and then he whispers--seizing his chance somehow, somehow, even though his brain's clouded by love hormones that've got him reeling--"Don't come yet."

Ian _laughs_ , and in the span of two seconds, shoves Mickey over onto his back and climbs on top, knees framing his thighs. 

"Fuckin' dick," he pushes out through a breath, taking their cocks in hand again.

But this time, he _thrusts_ , using the half-circle of his fingers to keep Mickey's dick in place as he drags his own against it.

And Mickey 

thinks

he'll

die.

" _Oh_ , fuck," he moans, squeezing his eyes shut and leaning his head back, throat exposed.

"So fuckin' hot," Ian pants, sliding his cock in and out, up and down alongside Mickey's. " _Fuck_."

And Mickey's proud of himself, and he thinks he's held on admirably, almost respectably considering it's only his third in-person time having sex with Ian. 

But Ian's face, and his wavery, stuttery, high-pitched, "Ooooh," like he's teetering on the edge, about to go over, sends a spark of arousal through Mickey's body that's so intense that he's helpless to stop the resulting explosion.

"Ian," he says, then _uh, uh_ , _uh_ s, three breathy little moans, and he curls his toes and clutches at Ian's shoulder blades as he grits his teeth and feels Ian's pace speed, the grip along his cock tighten, the pleasure build and build and

build

until he starts to come.

" _Fuck_ ," he pushes out through a groan, arching his back and just fucking _taking_ Ian's hard, hard, fast, fast thrusts as the most intense pleasure burns through him, only heightened by Ian's grunts above him, his faltering rhythm, his somehow tender little, "Fuck, Mickey, I'm, I'm--"

And Mickey feels it then--sees it when he's able to crack open his eyes enough to glance down. The warm, wet pulses against his cock, shooting up his belly, dripping into his pubes.

It's both their come, mixing together in thick drops and pearly trails against Mickey's skin, his rapidly rising and falling belly, and something about that gives Mickey a surge in his gut so hard that his cock jerks and he dribbles out a bit more--just a stringy drip onto Ian's fist.

"Fuck, _fuck_ ," Ian's repeating, and he's panting like he's run a fuckin' marathon.

With an _ooof_ , he collapses onto Mickey, all one-hundred sixty-ish warm, sweaty pounds of freckly ginger pressing him into the mattress, each movement of his body smearing their come in such a way that'll ensure they'll be practically glued together in a few minutes.

Mickey exhales, blowing out his breath hard enough to disturb Ian's hair, and gets his arms around Ian's back. He presses a kiss to the nearest bit of skin he can find--his shoulder.

" _God_ , that felt good," Ian murmurs into his neck, and Mickey feels the whisper of his lips as he speaks.

Mickey _mm_ s and runs his fingers in a gentle caress up and down the top of Ian's spine. 

They're quiet for a minute, and there's nothing but the sound of their slowing breaths and the sweet susurruses of skin passing against skin as they nuzzle and stroke. The soft squeak of an occasional kiss.

"How long was that, ya think?" Mickey asks, smiling when Ian presses up a bit to look at him.

"Vast improvement." Ian holds the weight of his upper body on one elbow and starts to pet through Mickey's hair, smoothing it back over and over again. He leans in and kisses him between the eyes.

Mickey turns his head to the side and glances at the clock on the nightstand. 

From start to finish, the whole thing was about eleven minutes long, but that's including their talking, fooling around, kissing, kicking, laughing, and wrestling.

Still, Mickey's happy. He wraps his arms around Ian's neck and pulls him in.

They kiss for long minutes, these slow, sweet pulls of kisses that they smile into, smile out of, break with nose-nuzzles and warm breaths.

Mickey loves him, and he wants to hold him, touch him, kiss him, feel the weight of him forever.

And he wants to tell him.

\---

There's a distinct pulling sensation when Ian finally gets off of him about ten minutes later, and the two of them groan at the crusting-up drying come on their stomachs.

"Wanna take a shower with me?" Ian asks--casually, like he's asking Mickey if he wants a beer or a snack.

Mickey bites his lip for a moment, his cheeks upturned in a smile. "Your shitty shower?"

"My shitty shower."

They end up in the shitty shower, which is, true to its name, pretty shitty. The water pressure's awful--the equivalent of what would come out of a kinked water hose. 

"Told you," Ian says, wiping water off his face. 

He's fuckin' sweet, standing there under the shower head, his hair flat and straight, much longer wet than it looks like it would be when dry and combed back.

Mickey takes him by the hips and pulls him close, and well, the one good thing about the awful water pressure is that it's like kissing in the rain.

 _I'm in love with you_ he wants to say, stroking his hands up and down Ian's water-wet sides.

And he's really gettin' the hang of this kissing thing, his confidence building and building the more and more he does it.

He wants to do it all the time.

Ian pulls away after a minute and leans in to lick at some of the water on Mickey's shoulder, finishing with a hard, sucking kiss to slope up to his neck. 

He straightens and grabs a bottle of shampoo, and well, Mickey wasn't exactly planning on washing his hair--was just gonna get the come off his belly and maybe make out with Ian for a while--but he has no choice when Ian squirts a dollop of Garnier Fructis shit onto his palm and, with no sense of finesse whatsoever, starts scrubbing up Mickey's head.

"The fuck are you doing?" Mickey asks in a grumbling monotone, closing his eyes like a fuckin' kid in the bath so the suds don't get in and letting Ian move his head around every which way as he lathers him up. 

"Washing my boyfriend's hair."

And Mickey can't see him, but he knows he's smirking.

"Did I ask?"

"Nope."

Mickey feels a kiss pressed to his lips, and then he's being maneuvered under the spray.

"Dick," he says, one side of his mouth turned up in a reluctant smile. He helps Ian rinse his hair, and then, after wiping his eyes, grabs the shampoo bottle and returns the favor.

"Lean down, you tall bitch," he complains, and Ian laughs as Mickey scrubs at his scalp.

\---

For the most part, they wash their own bodies with Ian's shower gel, only helping each other out by lathering one another's backs.

And they're clean and rinsed and just standing together, relaxing under the spray, when Ian drapes his forearms over Mickey's shoulders and kisses him.

It's so fuckin' _nice_ when they're all wet--so soft and warm--and Mickey revels in it, just closes his eyes and sighs and lets it happen, submits to the feelings, the tingles, the heart-kicks and the twists in his belly.

The love.

And that moment of letting it all wash over him--everything, everything, all the good things--is why he says the shit he says, his hands running across Ian's ribs, sliding to his back and down to touch at his sacrum.

"This is like a fuckin' dream," he murmurs, nosing against Ian's chin. His face gets hot with blood flow, his cheeks pinken, but he just _keeps fucking talking_. "Didn't think I'd ever get to have this shit."

Ian kisses Mickey's forehead. "Why not?"

Mickey shrugs. "I dunno, man. This stuff don't happen to me."

And the cocoon created by the closed-in shower, by the sound of the water spray, makes Mickey feel safe to hug him, to be hugged, to wrap his arms around Ian and let Ian run his nose up and down, nuzzling at his temple. To let him squeeze Mickey tight, tight, this grounding squeeze that makes him feel comforted. Needed. Necessary.

And he doesn't really know how it happens, but after a minute of that affirming embrace, Mickey finds Ian on his knees in front of him, taking him in his mouth.

This feels like a proper blowjob, like shit he's seen in porn-- _boyfriends_ , _making love_ porn--and he gasps and gasps and puts his hands in Ian's wet hair, squeezing at the strands and wringing them of rapidly-cooling water as Ian works his dick in his mouth and his hand.

It's the best feeling in the world, he thinks, and it's not even just because of the sex act. It's the whole fuckin' thing. Every ounce of what they're doing here--the hugging, the kissing, the hair-washing and back-lathering and Mickey's whispered confession and the love, the love, the love he feels all the way down to his fuckin' toes.

Ian glances up at him and pulls off for a minute, licking at the corner of his mouth. Then, with an eyebrow raised in question, he slides his free hand around to Mickey's ass and slips a couple fingers into his crack, just sliding them up and down the water-wet crease.

Mickey purses his lips and slowly exhales all the air in his lungs because _fuck_ , this is new, _completely_ new, nothing a girl's even remotely done to him when he was a lost, scared seventeen-year-old.

He nods once and bites his lip, the breath coming out his nose in little pants, shaky with nerves.

Ian smiles at him and, dropping his eyes low, presses his middle finger against his entrance.

Mickey's gotten pretty practiced in the art of anal insertion from his dildo, and obviously, Ian's one middle finger is way smaller than the toy. But it feels both awesome and weird as fuck as he works his way inside--the fact that Mickey has zero control over the movement of this digit making the experience completely different from what occasionally goes on during his masturbation sessions.

"Good?" Ian asks, and Mickey presses his lips together and nods.

Water's not a great lube, so Ian doesn't do anything fancy, but as he takes Mickey in his mouth again, he gently thrusts his finger in and out, more than anything just giving Mickey that extra sensation, that extra fullness as he slides his mouth up and down his dick, pillowing it with the soft cushion of his tongue.

But as Mickey gets closer and closer, his breath speeding, stomach beginning to tremble and thighs beginning to shake, he feels a fuckin' _jolt_ as Ian brushes, as if exploring, then gently rubs at his prostate.

" _Jesus Christ_ ," Mickey pushes out through a groan. He squeezes his eyes shut, and it only takes a couple more passes over his prostate and one more good, sloppy suck and stroke of Ian's mouth to push him over the edge.

And _fuck_ , Mickey wants to fucking die--just hit the shower floor and sink to oblivion--when Ian pulls back just because he can, just because he's not afraid of getting messy in the shower, and lets Mickey come against his flattened, outstretched tongue.

" _Ian_ ," Mickey says, and he sounds fuckin' _surprised_ , and he gasps and gasps as he watches three pulses of come beat out onto the soft, pink pillow of his tongue.

Ian pulls his tongue back in, swallows, and barely has a chance to get it out again before there's one more jet, followed by a dribble that Ian closes his mouth around and sucks off the tip of his cock.

 _Are you fucking serious?_ is what Mickey thinks, panting so hard his whole body's heaving a bit with it.

But what he says is, "Holy fucking shit, man," and he grasps at Ian's arms and pulls at him until Ian slowly removes his finger, gives his left ass cheek a squeeze on the way out, and stands.

They kiss until the water runs cold.

And it isn't until they're stepping out, shivering a bit and grabbing for towels to dry off, when Ian says, casually as anything but the words themselves like hands squeezing at Mickey's heart: 

"You _do_ get to have this shit, y'know. I'll give it to you every fuckin' day if I can."

\---

Ian doesn't ask for it, doesn't even hint at suggesting he return the favor, but Mickey blows him once they're back in the bedroom.

Ian lies back on his bed, wet hair leaving water marks on his pillowcase, his damp towel spread open under him, and Mickey stretches out between his legs and gives his most honest attempt at a skillful blowjob.

He works his hand and mouth as best he can, is mindful of his teeth, and whether he does a good job or not, Ian moans softly throughout it, those breathy, punch-in-the-back _uh_ s.

Near the end, when the taste of him is stronger, saltier on Mickey's tongue, when his breath picks up more and more, Mickey slides his free hand up Ian's belly and rests it there, just over his navel, feeling the rise and fall as he breathes deeply, feeling the quivers as he starts to tip over the edge.

Ian takes hold of Mickey's hand and gives it a hard squeeze when he comes, blowing out a loud, shuddery breath, and Mickey does the best he can to swallow everything he gives him. It's probably less than what it feels like, but Mickey has to swallow twice in order to clear his mouth. 

When he does, wiping at his lips with the back of his hand, Ian takes him by the forearms and pulls him up, up so he can kiss at his cheeks, his nose, his fuckin' eyebrows, before finally touching their mouths together in something warm. Calming. Sweet.

Afterward, Ian sits up and pulls Mickey onto his lap in an artless straddle, and they just sit there in the middle of the bed, wrapped in each other, damp and covered in goosebumps from the transition from shower to air conditioned apartment. 

When a couple minutes have passed, Ian pulls back out of their loose embrace, pecks Mickey's forehead, and sets in to look at him.

Mickey flushes under his gaze--he can't fuckin' help it--and he watches as Ian observes the pinkening of his skin, his mouth slowly upturning into a smile that makes Mickey slide his arms up, hands up, to cup Ian gently around the back of the neck with both hands.

Ian's wearing a soft look as he studies Mickey's face--his eyes, his cheeks, his mouth--before leaning in and touching their noses together.

Mickey feels the warmth of his breath against his lips--these sweet little puffs that make him feel safe and loved, wrapped up in intimacy that's indescribably good, that's fuckin' _nice_ , really--and when Ian says the next thing, the thing that sends Mickey's belly into a twist, his heart and breath into a stutter-stop, he can't help but press in closer, inhale him, get his air inside his lungs.

Ian rubs the tips of their noses together in a gentle caress, and he whispers, "You make me feel things."

They're a millimeter away, and their lips are brushing, and Mickey breathes him, breathes him, and sighs. 

"Like my showerhead?" he asks, one side of his mouth pulling up.

Ian shakes his head, rocking his nose back and forth against Mickey's. "Not even remotely like that."

And in that moment--when he closes that millimeter gap and licks into Ian's mouth in a way that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with just wanting to join himself to him, to touch together all their soft parts, to _connect_ \--he knows exactly what Ian means, and it's all the good things, all the good ways they've turned each other.

\---

They drag themselves off the bed at around ten o'clock and get dressed--Mickey back in his uniform and Ian in a blue T-shirt and black sweats--and then they head to the kitchen. They finish off a bag of Ian's Reese's minis while talking and flirting and listening to music as they share another beer.

Ian's hair dries all fluffy, the growing out buzzed hairs at the sides starting to curl up a bit at the ends, and when it's time for Mickey to go, he smooths his fingers through it and smirks at him, teasing him with his eyes.

In retribution, Ian grabs him around the waist and, with an audible heave, lifts him a couple inches and turns in a slow, rocking circle, squeezing him tight and _mm_ ing with effort.

He finishes by giving Mickey a smack of a kiss on the cheek, and really, _really_ they're just being annoyingly, grossly sappy tonight.

Ian gets him an Uber and waits with him out on the sidewalk, and when Viktor arrives in his red Jeep Renegade, he squeezes his wrist and tells him he'll text him.

And when Mickey gets home six minutes later, he smiles and he smiles as he climbs the stairs up to his apartment and reads Ian's texts over and over again, knowing that he's never been happier, never wanted to be alive, to _stay_ alive more than he does in this moment.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (11:29 PM):** Is it too soon in our relationship to tell you that I started missing you the second you got in the Uber?

\-------------------------------------------------------

\---

\---

In a normal relationship that's only been declared romantic for about two months and has only been _official_ and _exclusive_ and all that shit for a couple weeks, it'd probably be too soon for a lot of what they're doing and thinking and wanting.

But fuck, they may not have admitted things to each other until the end of May, but Mickey's been tied, tangled, twisted up in Ian in one way or another since fuckin' _January_. 

And really, he just thinks the whole _too soon_ shit is a non-fuckin'-factor where Ian's concerned because after talking to him for _months_ , thinking about him for _months_ , laughing with him and aching over him and learning a bit about how to be a goddamn normal, functioning fuckin' human with him for _months_ , there's not a thing Mickey wouldn't give for him. Do for him. Want for and with him.

And that makes him feel _alien_ , sort of, like his brain's been removed, rewired, replaced, like he's a different fuckin' person now--a man with a boyfriend, a man who kisses and has sex and flirts with a big, beautiful, ginger motherfucker in the kitchen while eating candy. A man who's in love.

But when he climbs in bed on Wednesday night, and he stares up at the beams of silvery-blue light cast onto the ceiling through the window, all he can think about is that sixteen-year-old kid in his bedroom, staring at his nicotine-stained ceiling and secretly wanting so much more than he could ever hope to have. 

And he knows that it's _him_ , and he's not fuckin' alien, and that all it is, all this life has shaped up to be for him, to make of him--the man with a boyfriend who kisses and has sex with and flirts with and _loves_ a big, beautiful, ginger motherfucker--is everything he wanted and everything he buried.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (12:04 AM):** Soft motherfucker

 **Mickey (12:04 AM):** I miss you too

\-------------------------------------------------------

\---

\---

On Friday, they make plans for the Saturday Fourth of July party at the Gallagher's. Ian's going to come over to Mickey's after he gets off work at five, drop off his shit, and then they'll walk over there together.

Mickey is unbelievably nervous. 

He spends most of Saturday morning cleaning his apartment and letting his candles burn for a few hours to get it smelling good. 

He washes his fuckin' sheets and even uses fabric softener and shit, and when he's putting them back on the bed at a little after three, he has to keep taking deep breaths to calm himself.

Because _fuck_ , he and Ian are gonna sleep together--literally and figuratively--and they might have sex all throughout the night and might wake up in each other's arms and might have breakfast with Mrs. C., who had given Mickey a fond, knowing look when he'd asked her about it on his way back from the laundromat.

And tonight, Mickey's gonna meet Ian's _family_ , and Ian _wants him to_ , had wanted him to even back before they met, had told his fuckin' siblings that they were _hanging out_ , had included Mickey as part of his _love life_ when he talked to Fiona, and well. 

It's weird as fuck to think that he'll be going to the party as a _boyfriend_. It makes his stomach twist when he thinks of it, when he pulls on his [maroon T-shirt, vest, and light wash jeans he's cut off into shorts](https://i.ibb.co/hYzP0rb/mickoutfit.png). When he tugs on his socks and brown boots. When he looks at himself in the mirror and takes a deep breath.

\---

\---

Ian does the _shave and a haircut_ knock on his door at five-forty, and Mickey can't help but open the door with a stupid grin.

Ian's carrying a navy overnight bag, and he's still got his uniform on. "Hey," he greets with a soft smile, leaning in to press a peck of a kiss against Mickey's lips.

Mickey steps out of the way so he can come in and murmurs, "You can put your stuff wherever."

With a nod, Ian takes his bag into the bedroom, and Mickey follows him down the hall and leans against the doorframe as he watches Ian set his bag down on the floor by the bed and then, in an embarrassingly gentle voice, lean down and frame his arms around Jovi, who's curled up on Mickey's pillow.

"Hi Joves," he whispers, giving his head a nose-nuzzle and smiling when he makes his little _brrr_ noise.

Mickey snorts at that, and Ian straightens, comes over, and takes him by the waist.

"Got a problem?" he asks, touching his nose to Mickey's cheek as his hands slide back to his sacrum, arms wrap around his torso in a hug.

Mickey _hm_ s at that and presses in to kiss him. 

And well, making out really is kinda great.

\---

"You look good," Ian comments when they're done, stepping back and scanning his eyes over Mickey's body. "You have really nice legs."

Mickey kicks at Ian's black sneaker.

They spend the next forty-five minutes puttering around the apartment, getting some last-minute things done before they need to leave.

Ian changes into a [red, polka-dot short-sleeve button down](https://i.ibb.co/09Pst9N/Screen-Shot-2020-06-16-at-1-33-22-PM.png) over his gray tank-top and dark wash jeans while Mickey smokes a cigarette at the open window and watches him.

"Got a hanger?" Ian asks afterward, holding up his EMT uniform. And Mickey's heart gives a little kick when he crushes out his cigarette in the ashtray on the sill and moves over to the closet to get him one.

It's fuckin' surreal watching him hang his uniform in the closet amongst Mickey's clothes, and he drops his mouth open a little at it, taking a series of slow breaths.

"Thanks," Ian says once he's finished, walking back over to his overnight bag and digging around inside it. He takes out a toiletry pouch and unzips it, pulling out two prescription bottles, a stick of Old Spice Wolfthorn deodorant, and a bottle of Vitamin B-complex gummies.

"It cool if I keep these here?" Ian asks, gesturing toward the top of Mickey's dresser, where he has his own deodorant stored. He looks down sheepishly and murmurs, "Sorry. I'm sort of a lot with my medications and shit."

Mickey just shrugs at him and asks, "What's the Vitamin B for?"

When Ian tells him, there's a little up-turn at the corner of his mouth, like he's relieved for some reason--as if there's anything shameful or wrong about needing medication to keep you healthy.

"Remind me to take all my shit as soon as we get back," he continues afterward, sitting down on the bed to pull on his Air Jordans. "Before we get like, carried away, or."

And they've had four orgasms each with one another, are planning to spend the night together, and yet Ian's implication that they're gonna fuck tonight sends an electric jolt of warmth through Mickey's body in the same way it would if they'd never before even touched.

"Carried away, huh?" he manages to breathe out, crossing his arms over his chest and watching Ian tie his shoe.

Ian looks up at him and smirks, devious. " _So_ carried away, Mickey."

"Gonna hold you to it, Gallagher."

When he's finished tying his shoe, Ian stands, walks over to Mickey, and places his mouth on his neck. He drags it up the side and then back down his throat, tongue dragging deliciously against Mickey's skin, before finishing with a squeaky peck right above the neck of his shirt.

"Do it," he challenges, running his hands around Mickey's hips and sliding them down inside his back pockets.

Mickey just breathes at him, eyebrows raised. "Fine," he grumbles, as if it'll be a hardship.

\---

\---

They leave the apartment at six-thirty and enjoy the leisurely walk to the Gallagher house. The weather's nice, sky clear and blue as the sun begins its descent, temperature holding steady in the mid-seventies.

And well, it's Southside, so nothing's fuckin' _beautiful_ and there are drunks on every corner. But it's good, and it's nice, and Ian and Mickey hold hands a little, going from playfully-- _annoyingly_ , Ian--swinging them like two idiot kids to slowing down along more private streets, rubbing their thumbs across each other's knuckles.

Mickey doesn't go out to South Wallace very often, generally preferring to avoid areas any closer to Trumbull, to the Milkovich House of Horrors, than the Kash and Grab. 

The neighborhood's changed a lot since he was a kid, the Northside seeping into the South--beautiful, architecturally modern homes cropping up around houses with peeling paint and weed-filled yards and cigarette butts littering the front steps.

The neighborhood's changed, but the Gallagher house looks the same as always, really. Mickey used to walk past on a regular basis as he made his way to the empty lot under the L to deal, and looking at it today, seeing that same blue-gray paint and those same rickety wooden steps, he rolls his lips into his mouth and bites down, thinking about how Ian fuckin' Gallagher was in there the entire fuckin' time. 

Was accessible to him. Would've liked him, maybe, if they'd ever spoken more than a couple words at the Kash and Grab, if they'd ever known each other's secret and if Mickey hadn't been so afraid.

As they approach the house, Mickey smells hot dogs and hamburgers on the grill in the back as he inhales deeply, exhales slowly, trying to calm his nerves.

"They're really not so bad," Ian murmurs, bumping him with his elbow and pushing open the chain-link fence. "And they're all expecting you, so you don't have to be worried about them being like, _surprised_ or whatever."

Mickey just raises his eyebrows, squeezes his fists together in an attempt to release some of the nervous tension, and follows Ian up the front steps and into the house.

It's fuckin' _loud_ inside, the TV playing some kid's show at full blast. Ian doesn't seem to mind, however, as he immediately walks over and grabs the ten-year-old Mickey knows from Instagram is Liam around the waist and picks him up briefly, squeezing him in a hug.

"What's up, little bro?" he asks, setting him down and turning to the two kids Liam's apparently watching--a toothy, wobbly walker with blond hair beginning to curl up at the ends and a little ginger girl with her hair in a bun, playing with a tea set at the coffee table. 

He grabs Franny and fireman lifts her over his shoulder, leaving her playfully screaming and giggling, and then swings her back down into his arms and tickles her until she's breathless.

Mickey's distracted enough by Ian's maniacally grinning face and by the fact that Franny's calling him "Uncle Ian" in her ultra high-pitched, mousey voice that he jumps a little when Liam starts talking to him, voice wise and serious like he's a forty-year-old man in a kid's body.

"So you're Mickey," he says, and it's a judgmentless observation. He's holding Freddie by the hand and looking Mickey straight in the eye.

"Uh, yeah," he replies, giving the kid a nod.

He's awkward around children, he thinks, having never been around them in any meaningful way since he was a child, himself. 

"Good luck with my brother," Liam says, voice pleasant, polite, and not nearly as ominous as the statement seems. 

Mickey raises his eyebrows at him as Ian sets down Franny and comes over, giving Liam a playful bump with his knee.

"Thanks for that, Liam," Ian says sarcastically, bending to scoop up Freddie and carrying him off into the kitchen.

Mickey follows. 

Debbie and Freddie's mom are preparing to carry out aluminum pans full of side-dishes--potato salad, baked beans, mac and cheese, and some kind of strawberry Jell-O thing.

"Debbie, Tami, this is Mickey," Ian introduces, setting down the kid so he can help carry food.

Debbie smiles at him, her freckled face lighting up, and for all the shit Ian's told him about her teenage years and about her occasional attitudes, she seems to genuinely like her brother and is kind when she talks to Mickey.

"Sorry about insta-bombing you," she says, scooping up the pan of baked beans. "It was kinda my fault we all follow-requested you at the same time."

"Whatever," Mickey says with a shrug, eyeing the aluminum pans. "Need some help?"

Tami seems a little harried as the three of them bring the food out to the back yard, likely exacerbated by the fact that Freddie begins to wail from the kitchen the second she leaves his sight. But she's nice enough, placing her hand on Mickey's shoulder once they have the dishes arranged on a rickety, fold-out table and saying, "It's good to meet you, Mickey. Ian's told us a lot about you."

Mickey glances over at Ian, who presses his lips together into a straight line and raises his eyebrows. "Told ‘em about me, huh?"

"What can I say? You're a special interest of mine."

Tami looks between them and smiles warmly before rushing off to get her screaming kid.

The back yard is a little cramped for a proper barbeque, the food table, grill, and scattered lawn chairs sharing space with an old van that looks like it's been there for decades.

Kev and V from the Alibi--family friends, Ian says--are talking by the grill, and Ian introduces Mickey to them and snags a hot dog.

Mickey knows them, sort of--has at least talked to Kev at the bar when he was still living at the Milkovich house and going there for drinks a couple times a week. He's a bit of an idiot, but Mickey remembers he'd given him drinks on the house for the night when he'd come in after finding out his dad was dead, and well, he'd maybe hated his dad a whole fuckin' lot, but it'd felt good to have someone looking out for him, if only for a few hours on a random Thursday night.

"Good to see ya, bud," Kev greets, and he's maybe a little overly-cheery, but he's nice, and he reaches down into the cooler by his side to get Mickey a beer.

V gushes a little at Ian, whispering with him as Ian munches on the hot dog and grins, and then turns to Mickey and smiles with nothing but open kindness. "Welcome to the shit show," she says cheerily, and her face is bright enough that Mickey can't help but smile.

He twists off the cap of his beer and takes a sip, eyes wandering the yard. 

Over by the above-ground pool, Lip's lying in a pool chair wearing sunglasses, smoking a cigarette and drinking a Coke. 

Mickey'd known from Ian's Instagram photos that he was no longer the curly-haired shit of a kid he was when they were in school together, but it still strikes him a little as a sign of just how fuckin' much shit's changed over the past eight or nine years.

He's a fuckin' _man_ , and he's got a baby mama and a kid and a newly-recovered drinking problem, and Mickey wonders, idly, if Lip's thinking about all the changes in _him_ when he takes off his sunglasses, sits up, and eyes the two of them before pulling Ian in for a back-pat and hug.

"Mickey _Milkovich_?" Lip asks, seemingly in guarded disbelief, taking a drag off his cigarette and turning his head a little to blow away the smoke in laughing puffs. " _Fuck_."

Mickey knows he's sorta playin' this shit up, as there's no way in hell Ian hasn't shown him pictures of him. But, well, it's fine, and he can absolutely ask the same of him, which he does with a smirk and a raised eyebrow.

"Lip Gallagher, everybody's least favorite smartass." Mickey takes a long pull off his beer. Swallows. "Think I still probably owe you a beatin' for somethin', man."

Lip looks at him for a second--studying his face with a seriousness that tells Mickey he's mentally weighing his options--and finally, when Mickey thinks it could go either way, he smirks and holds up his drink in a toast.

Mickey smiles lightly and taps his beer bottle to the Coke can.

Ian's wandered over to the pool and is leaning over the edge, pretending to drown his teenage brother, who's been splashing around with presumably his girlfriend and what looks like Kev and V's twin daughters.

"It serious with you two?" Lip asks, voice low, glancing over to Ian, who's laughing and struggling against Carl's attempts to pull him into the pool.

Mickey bites at the corner of his lip and shrugs. "Yeah. Probably."

He turns away from Ian and sees Lip's looking at him now, studying his face. 

"Not gonna give you the shovel talk," Lip says, scratching at his jaw. "I don't do that shit."

"You tellin' me you don't give shovel talks _is_ the fuckin' shovel talk."

Lip smiles around the mouth of the Coke can. "Yeah, maybe."

And Mickey looks at him. Watches him slide his sunglasses back on and put a hand on his shoulder briefly--an olive branch--and well. He thinks he might like the guy alright.

\---

At around seven-thirty, Liam brings out a bluetooth speaker along with Franny and Freddie, and the Gallaghers play classic rock as everybody fills their plates and then sits around in the yard to eat.

Ian doesn't stay with him the whole time, which is fine, as Carl strikes up a conversation with him as he's standing at the food table, and Mickey thinks he's fuckin' amusing in a dumb, good-hearted kinda way. He actually doesn't hate talking to him.

But when he's halfway through his plate, Ian wanders back over and pokes his shoulder. "We can sit down, y'know," he says, mouth full of mac and cheese, and the two of them snag a couple lawn chairs over near the pool.

"Not so bad, right?" Ian asks, stealing Mickey's beer from the ground beside his chair and taking a sip.

Mickey shrugs. Nods. "Surprisingly alright."

"They like you." Ian takes another drink off the beer and then puts it back down where he found it. "Lip actually said you were, quote, ‘Pretty okay.'"

Mickey snorts and takes a bite of potato salad. "Great."

Ian smiles at him, and they eat for a few minutes in silence.

"The kid's kinda funny," Mickey notes, nodding toward Carl, who's still over by the food table, goofing around with his girlfriend.

"Mm. Shoulda met him five years ago. Still great, but like, completely different kid."

Mickey raises his eyebrows and shovels in some strawberry Jell-O shit that's fuckin' _heaven_ , and well, maybe in a different life he would've. Would've known all the fuckin' Gallaghers.

But then he thinks back on who he was five years ago, fresh off his dad's death, fresh in an attempt to make a fuckin' life for himself, doing his damndest to _scrape_ , and he knows that he was a completely different kid, too.

"Whatcha thinkin' about?" Ian asks, scooping the last bits of food off his plate.

Mickey shrugs and grabs his beer. "Life shit. I dunno."

He takes a long, slow drink and watches Ian's face.

"I'm glad you're here," Ian says, and Mickey sets his plate in his lap and reaches out to take his hand.

\---

\---

Everybody hangs out, drinks, smokes, and eats an American flag cookie cake from Jewel as they wait for it to get dark enough for fireworks.

The fully-mobile kids run around the yard, screaming and giggling, and [Tom Petty's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SIhb-kNvL6M) playing on the speaker, and Mickey's really fuckin' happy, sneaking off away from the others with Ian and taking several hits off the joint Ian pulls, with care, from his wallet.

They kiss a bit through it, smokey little weed kisses, and then giggle like a couple of fuckin' kids when V purposely projects her voice in the middle of her conversation with Debbie and says something about "those two sneakin' off to make out."

"C'mon," Ian says, voice so happy, so light, dropping the finished joint on the ground and crushing it into the gravel. He leans in, presses one more kiss to Mickey's lips, and turns to make his way back to the party. 

Mickey takes a deep breath before he moves, glancing up at the darkening sky and feeling things that have nothing to do with the marijuana.

And he's about to take a step, about to follow after Ian, when he sees it lying there in a little crumple, right near where Ian was standing.

The fucking fortune.

It had apparently fallen from his wallet when he'd taken out the joint.

Heart pounding, he reaches down and grabs it, holding it between his fingers and about to give it a squinty read in the darkness when Ian calls his name.

"Hey. Ya comin'?"

Mickey quickly shoves it in his pocket and nods.

\---

\---

The fireworks--the _illegal_ fireworks--have been stored inside the van. The men work together to load them, along with a stack of blankets, into a shopping cart seemingly long ago stolen from the nearest supermarket, and the Gallaghers set off in one large group for the empty lot by the L, where Mickey used to deal his drugs ten years ago.

Ian carries Franny on his back the whole way there, and she keeps looking at Mickey and then turning her head away shyly when he looks back at her.

He smirks at that because she's pretty cute, really, and she loves her Uncle Ian.

"Ya like fireworks?" he asks her, tryin' out this whole _talking to a kid_ thing.

She just looks at him curiously and then presses her face against Ian's back.

\---

All the guys help set up the fireworks, but Carl, lighter in hand and an _insane_ amount of excited energy in his body, volunteers to set them off.

After they've got them arranged, everyone spreads out around the lot in little groups: Kev, V, and their kids; Lip, Tami, and Freddie, who's sporting a huge pair of noise-canceling headphones; Debbie, Carl's girlfriend, Franny, and Liam.

Ian and Mickey spread out a blanket away from the others and stretch out together on their backs, looking up at the sky.

There's a shit-ton of light pollution from the city, so you can't see the stars that well, but the moon is still visible, and Ian's holding his hand, and really, this moment is perfect.

"Did you have fun?" Ian asks, fingers squeezing Mickey's.

Mickey turns his head to the side, and they look at each other for a minute, studying.

And he's not even lying when he nods and says, voice gentle, "Yeah."

He _did_ have fun. Is _having_ fun. 

He's surrounded by Ian's intense, ridiculous fuckin' family, and he maybe feels a little awkward but not out of place. And every single fuckin' one of them older than the age of eighteen knows about the Milkoviches, knows their reputation, but they'd talked to Mickey, had given him food and beer and pats on the shoulder, and well, people really might not be so bad. 

Families might not be so bad.

The first firework shoots off with a high-pitched _whizz_ that breaks Mickey from his thoughts. He turns his head to once more face the sky, and he can't help the little surprise-jump he gives when it explodes, bright and pink and with a sound he feels in his heart, his lungs, his stomach.

Ian chuckles, having caught his jump, and squeezes his hand.

He's better prepared for the second firework, and by the third, he and Ian have their heads leaned together, the two of them having scooted closer and closer.

"Happy Fourth of July, Mickey," Ian whispers between _boom_ s, when the lot is startlingly quiet and calm.

Mickey turns his head, and he presses his lips to Ian's, and he's still got a little weed smell and his lips taste like cookie cake frosting, and Mickey has never, ever been more into him.

When fireworks five and six go off, Ian rolls over on top of Mickey and interlocks their fingers, stretching them out flat on the blanket above their hands as they kiss and kiss.

And the fireworks are a metaphor, really, for everything they are, everything they have been and will be, this explosion that lights up the darkness of the sky, fills it with color, _every_ fuckin' color, and vibrates inside them, gives them tingles in their fingers, in their toes.

" _Fuck_ , Ian," Mickey whispers, gasping around his mouth, and they're missing the rest of the fireworks, having reduced them to noise and sudden flashes of light behind their closed eyes. But all Mickey can do, think, _want_ is this man on top of him, is his mouth and his body and his heart and everything, everything, everything about him.

"I have your fortune," he says between kisses, and he doesn't know why he says it, but in this moment, his thoughts are warm liquid, seeping from his pores. He almost says _I love you_ , but instead, he says, _I have your fortune_ , and as Ian's kisses slow in recognition of Mickey's statement, he's not sure if he made the right decision.

Ian pulls back a bit and releases Mickey's hands. "What?" he asks, confused.

Mickey shoves a little at Ian's chest, and the two of them sit up, giving Mickey room to dig the slip of paper from his pocket. "It fell out when you were gettin' the joint. I didn't read it. Just picked it up."

He holds it out for Ian, hopeless to even read it in the darkness between fireworks, but Ian doesn't take it.

Instead, he places his hands on Mickey's shoulders and kisses him again, two slow, sucking kisses that are warmth and light and feel a hell of a lot like love.

"You can read it," he says, tapping once at his hand. Pressing one more peck of a kiss to his lips.

Mickey takes a deep breath and waits for the next burst of fireworks to provide some light.

And when it comes, it's massive, and it's long, Carl seemingly having lit an entire row one after the other.

Mickey looks down at the fortune, and he bites his lip, and metaphors?

Metaphors.

He reads it, and it's the grand finale, and the sky is bright and loud and beautiful, and the fortune reads

_Stop searching. You've found the one._

\---

As the last of the fireworks burn their way in golden streams across the sky, Mickey takes Ian by the face and kisses him with everything he has, everything he knows, everything he feels.

"I want you inside me," he whispers when it's dark again, when the rest of the Gallaghers cheer, when there's the faint sound of police sirens in the distance.

And he means it sexually, but he means it in other ways, too, and right now, he's not sure which way he means it more.

_He just means it._

\---

The sirens aren't letting up, and they're coming closer. Someone yells "run," and everyone grabs up their blankets and takes off, Franny and the Ball twins riding in the shopping cart, Ian and Mickey moving at a sprint, shoving and kicking each other and laughing, _laughing_ with adrenaline, feeling so fucking good, so fucking high, so fucking free.

When they reach the Gallagher house, Ian orders an Uber, and they say their goodbyes while they wait on it to arrive.

Mickey gets hugs or head-nods from everyone, and if they're suspicious about why he and Ian are leaving so early, no one says anything.

Ian swings all the kids around one last time, hugs his siblings and V, and steals the last triangular slice of cookie cake, wrapping it up in a paper towel before joining Mickey on the sidewalk at the front of the house.

They share the cookie cake on the ride back to Mickey's apartment, and Ian kisses him with frosting-sweet lips and a tongue stained blue from food coloring as they stand outside Mickey's building once the driver drops them off.

"Take your pills, bitch," Mickey reminds as he unlocks the door to the building and holds it open for Ian to enter.

Ian smirks at him on his way past and takes him by the hand as they make their way up to Mickey's unit.

\---

While Ian takes his pills at the kitchen sink, Mickey goes to the bathroom to pee and splash water over his face.

He looks at himself in the mirror then--watches rivulets trail down his skin and drip off his chin--and though his stomach twists a bit with nerves, with worry that maybe it won't go right, won't be right, he can't help but smile, but rub his wet face with the palms of his hands and think about the fuckin' _fortune_ , the fuckin' _one_ , Ian and love and all the good things, all the good ways they blend together, settle together, _are_ together.

"Yo," Ian says, coming into the bathroom and standing behind Mickey. He pokes his sides teasingly and finishes by wrapping his arms around his middle.

They stare at each other in the mirror.

"You ready for this, Milkovich?" he asks, dipping his head to press a kiss to the soft, tender place behind his ear.

Mickey grabs a washcloth from beside the sink and dries off his face. "Damn straight, Gallagher."

\---

They slowly undress as they make their way to the bedroom, haphazardly dropping articles of clothing on the floor, not giving a fuck about the fact that they could just as easily lay their shit out neatly.

It takes a while, and there's two pairs of laced-up shoes to remove this time, but they're doing it together, and they're kissing in-between, and though it may not be objectively romantic, the unzipping, the untying, it feels soft, and it feels special, and Mickey feels good and right and whole every time Ian presses his mouth to each newly-exposed bit of skin.

"The fortune was really kinda sappy," Mickey teases, pulling back the comforter and climbing onto the bed.

Ian shoves at him until he's on his back and climbs on top of him, pinning him down.

"Was it, now?" he asks, voice light, and leans in and sucks a sweet kiss to Mickey's lips.

Mickey nods and gets his arms around Ian's neck.

They kiss for a while--soft, open-mouthed things that bring their arousal to a slow boil.

"Kinda worried," Ian whispers after several minutes, trailing his mouth down Mickey's jaw and then planting a series of sucking kisses to his neck.

"About?"

"Coming in two-point-five seconds."

Mickey _snorts_ and pulls Ian's face up to kiss him. "Optimistic."

"One-point-five seconds."

"Better."

And they laugh--soft, breathy little laughs as they stroke their hands across each other's bodies and revel in the things they feel.

There's a silent agreement that they're not even gonna _attempt_ foreplay further than the casual kissing and touching they've been doing, Ian's Two Pump Chump-iness a very real threat.

Mickey sits up after a minute and reaches for the nightstand drawer, opening it just enough to get out the lube and box of condoms, careful as fuck not to let the nine-inch dildo--seven inches insertable, medical grade silicone, soft exterior, firm core, "realistic skin-like feel"--at the back come rolling to the front.

"Magnums, huh?" Ian asks, opening the box and pulling one out. "Thanks for thinking of me."

Mickey rolls his eyes and gives him a kick but smiles a little bashfully, cheeks heating up, as he watches Ian set down the foil packet and reach for the lube.

He bends down for a moment, tube in hand, and kisses at Mickey's belly, these gentle, sucking kisses that leave wet marks that shine in the overhead light.

Mickey closes his eyes and blows out a breath at that--shakes a little when Ian drags his mouth downward and licks along the crease of his left thigh.

"These are so fuckin' hot," Ian comments, hands grabbing at his thighs and pressing them up a bit.

And they've always been a little on the thick side, always been a part of him he was indifferent about but certainly didn't love, and he bites at his lip a little as he watches Ian smile at him sweetly and swoop down to press open-mouthed kisses to them, to massage them in his big hands.

"You can like, fuckin' crush my head between them anytime you want, man," Ian says against his skin, breath coming out in warm, tickly little puffs, and Mickey releases his lip and laughs.

Dorky motherfucker.

And he keeps laughing in stops and starts as Ian drags his mouth all over him, at one point straight-up licking at him like he's a fuckin' icecream cone on a hot day.

"The fuck are you doin'?" he asks, amused as hell, and Ian snorts and replies, "Lickin' your thighs before I get between ‘em."

And well.

Mickey's cock gives a little jerk at that.

Ian does eventually pop the top on the lube and squirt a dollop onto his fingers.

"What if I come while I'm _fingering_ you?" Ian asks, teasing, sliding his middle finger down and circling Mickey's entrance.

Mickey exhales slowly, slowly, in one long stream. "Shut up."

"What if I _do_ , Mickey?"

"Why are you such a fuckin' dork?"

Ian smirks and slowly, slowly works his finger inside him.

Mickey moans. This feels fuckin' _great_. He squeezes his eyes shut and concentrates on his breathing, concentrates on Ian's left hand gently massaging his thigh, his lips touching at his belly and for brief seconds the head of his cock, and his finger thrusting smoothly in and out of him.

He gets in a second finger, sliding it in beside the first, and it's a bit more of a stretch but in the best, most delicious way possible.

Mickey has to tell Ian to stop intermittently tonguing at his dick for fear of blowing before they even begin.

"What if _you_ come while I'm fingering you?" Ian asks, and Mickey kinda wants to kill him.

"Shut the fuck up and put in another finger."

Ian chuckles and does as he's asked.

And they're being fuckin' dumbasses, really, goofing around in bed, teasing each other about coming too soon, giving each other playful little kicks and smacks and telling each other to shut up. But _fuck_ , if this ain't the best Mickey's felt in his life.

Because they're being dumbasses, and they're teasing each other, but it's so fuckin' safe and so fuckin' comfortable, and it may not be a Hollywood romantic sex scene, but it's even better, somehow, because it's real and it's right, and Mickey feels every ounce of Ian's kindness in his squeezing hand, kissing lips, thrusting fingers. 

It takes a second to adjust to three fingers, but after a few minutes, Mickey's done joking around, that tight, twisting pressure of Ian's long fingers hitting him in all the good spots, in all the good ways, _all the good things_ , and all he can do is blow out a breath and tell him to "Do it, Ian. _Fuck_."

Ian makes a whimpering sound, as if _he_ 's the one getting his prostate stroked, and slowly, slowly removes his fingers from Mickey's ass.

"Wanna do it on your back?" he manages to push out in a breath, wiping his lube-covered fingers on the sheet and picking up the condom.

Mickey pulls his legs up until they're bent at the knees, feet flat on the bed, and nods. And he's _blushing_ , he fuckin' knows it, because Ian's smiling at him in the way he always does when he wants to kiss him and tease him and prod at him until he's as flushed as he can get.

He sighs as he watches Ian unwrap the condom and roll it on his dick, and as Ian moves in close, sliding in-between Mickey's thighs just like he said he would, Mickey makes a fuckin' _noise_ \--this funny little high-pitched hum.

He's embarrassed with himself, but Ian just looks at him like it was the hottest thing in the world as he takes his own dick in hand and presses it gently, gently against Mickey's entrance.

"You're not allowed to make noises," Ian whispers, teases, eyes squeezed shut. "I'll blow."

Mickey bears down, and Ian presses in a little, mouth dropped open and breath coming out in harsh, heavy pants.

He slides in further.

And he's big-- _fuck_ , he's big--but he feels a bit more pliable than the dildo, even if it is advertised as realistic, his girth a _stretch_ but not an unrelenting one. Ian eases, eases in, and Mickey breathes as slowly as he can, concentrating on the rise and fall of his chest, as he watches Ian's face scrunch up, watches him grimace a little, clearly fighting with his body.

"Your one-point-five seconds are up, man, so you can do what you gotta do," Mickey murmurs, a smirk on his face, and Ian whispers, "Fuckyoufuckyou" and slides the rest of the way in.

And he's doing an admirable job, really, holding it together. He's managed to get himself all the way inside Mickey, and he's been able to last for _at least_ twenty seconds so far.

But here, he seems at an impasse, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, his jaw clenched so hard Mickey can see the tautness of his facial muscles.

"If I move, I'm gonna come," he says, voice strained.

Mickey purses his lips and blows out a breath. He reaches up, wraps his arms around Ian's shoulders, and whispers, "Do it."

And he does.

He buries his face in Mickey's shoulder, thrusts his hips once, twice, and groans.

Mickey laughs through it, even as his cock gets impossibly hard--fuckin' _twitches_ , even, at the feeling of Ian pulsing inside him, these rhythmic little beats that tell Mickey he's coming inside the condom, that he's feeling really, really good right now.

"Fuck," he murmurs, rubbing at Ian's back encouragingly, wanting it to feel awesome for him even if he did go off appropriately like a Fourth of July firework after approximately forty seconds.

Ian grumbles and laughs a little into Mickey's shoulder, clearly embarrassed.

And Mickey could be all soft and reassuring with him, or he could do what he ends up doing, which is pushing at his shoulders so he'll lift up and look at him, taking him by the sides of his face, and saying, in his best impression of Ian being a dorky idiot, " _Wow_ , that was cute."

"I hate you," Ian says, going for Mickey's line in their script and letting him pull their foreheads together.

And well, Mickey goes with Ian's line, then, whispering, "Sure ya do," and pressing a kiss to his lips.

Ian pulls out after a couple minutes, and he's still hard, really, his erection only having softened from diamond-strong to firm.

He takes off the condom and pulls on another, reapplies lube, and presses Mickey's thighs up, encouraging him to wrap them around his waist.

"You were _literally_ a Two Pump Chump," Mickey notes as Ian starts to press back inside.

"Look," Ian says, breath coming in hot, fast puffs that hit Mickey directly in the face. "I told ya I was gonna last for _seconds_ , so I was at least reasonably aware of my shortcomings."

"Shortcomings," Mickey repeats with a naughty little laugh. "It was _definitely_ short."

"Have I told you I fucking hate you?"

"Yeah." Mickey squeezes Ian's sides between his knees and locks his ankles over his sacrum. "Don't believe ya, though."

Ian slides in and in and in until he's fully seated, and he's panting again, his entire body flushed like he's been in the sun, but he seems a little calmer than the first time, his face one of concentration rather than overwhelming stress. "Well, if I don't hate you, then what?"

He slowly drops down and presses his forehead to Mickey's.

"You tell me," Mickey whispers, his breath hitting Ian's mouth and bouncing back to his own skin, forming a hot little cocoon that surrounds their gentle words.

Ian kisses him, and he thrusts once, slowly, slowly, and replies, "You tell _me_."

And Mickey would gladly, _gladly_ tell him if he could, if Ian wasn't now thrusting in slow pushes and pulls, if that fuzzy space beneath his navel wasn't rubbing against his cock with each movement.

"Fuck," he forces out, touching his open mouth to Ian's face, their foreheads still together, that hot cocoon cradling their breaths, their moans, each and every one of Ian's punch-in-the-back _uh_ s, each of Mickey's grunts.

It's the best he's ever felt in his entire life, Ian moving _inside_ him, _fuck_ , he's inside him, _fuck_ , he's being fucked by the man he loves. And it's intense and overwhelming, and they're both sweating, Mickey's fingers dragging through the blooming wetness on Ian's back.

And all he can think of, _all he can think of_ is the sex dream he had before the first time they jerked off together, and how he'd gotten the positions exactly right but the sensations all wrong, and that this, this, _this_ is better than anything in the entire world.

"Fuck, fuck," Ian's mumbling over and over again, hips moving in gentle rocks, as if he's afraid to go harder for fear of coming.

"You can move faster," Mickey assures him in-between pants, pushing his own hips up a little, encouraging.

And yeah, Mickey was right, because Ian says, "I'll come again," and groans, as if the word itself nearly sets him off.

It's ridiculously hot, that groan, and Mickey pushes up with his hips again, squeezing his legs around Ian and pulling himself harder onto his cock, pulling Ian's belly more firmly against his own so he's being rubbed in all the right ways, in all the best ways.

" _Mickey_ ," Ian breathes, lifting his head so he can go up on his elbows. He leans, putting all his upper body weight on his left arm, and slides his right down between their bodies to grasp at Mickey's cock.

He somehow manages to muster enough energy to raise his eyebrows at Mickey, and the question is obvious, is _You ready for the end?_

"Do it. Fuck me," Mickey says, sliding his arms up around Ian's neck and closing his eyes.

Ian gradually starts to pick up the pace of his hips, his breathy pants turning to longer, harder exhales that carry with them just the littlest bit of voice.

He strokes Mickey's cock in time with his thrusts, and Mickey holds on and holds on, squeezing with his knees and his arms, and it feels so good, so unbearably, unbelievably good, so much better than any realistic fuckin' dildo maneuvered by his own hand, so much better than anything, anything.

 _Jesus Christ_ , Ian's _inside_ him. He's inside his body, and he's gonna come inside his body, and Mickey's own body is making Ian feel this way, is making him make these sweet little _oh_ noises, these whimpers that are shaky and pitched upwards.

"You feel so fuckin' good," Ian says, dipping as best he can to kiss him. "So fuckin' good."

And Mickey starts to lose it after that, the slowly-building tingles inside him growing and growing, becoming stronger with each thrust, with each stroke, with each brush against his prostate. 

He's absolutely _dripping_ pre-come, and he knows because he can hear the slick sounds made by the stroke of Ian's hand, and the thought of it, the thought of his arousal and Ian's arousal and Ian's hot, hot breath and hard cock and the muffled noises he's making causes Mickey's balls to draw up, causes this pulsing throb to kick off inside him, and _fuck, fuck_ , Ian must be able to _feel_ it.

His elbow collapses, and he goes down a bit, flattening himself against Mickey, stroking hand squished between them and not able to move freely but who cares, who fucking, fucking cares because it doesn't matter at all.

" _Fuck_ , I can feel you starting to come," Ian says, thrusting, thrusting, panting like he's just run a five-minute mile. "Fuck, Mickey, this is so hot."

And those pulses are only building, building as Mickey reaches his peak. 

When he does, he shoves his head back against his pillow as hard as he can and _moans_ , and it's loud, louder than he's ever moaned in his life, but _fuck_ , he feels good, and he's coming, and Ian's thrusting hard, hard, cock rubbing against his prostate on every pass, prolonging his orgasm into a delicious, hot, wet burn that makes him dizzy, makes him squeeze his eyes shut and hold his breath and ride out the wave after wave that hits him.

"I'm coming, too," Ian says, and he sounds desperate, positively _wrecked_. "Oh, _fuck_. _Oooh_ , fuck," he repeats, over and over again as he starts to come, as he pulses again inside Mickey and buries his face in his neck, mouth open and biting at him in pleasure.

He continues to rock inside Mickey for several seconds after they've both come, his hips moving in gentle little thrusts that must feel good to him, still, that feel calming, loving to Mickey.

"Fuck, Mickey," Ian says once he finally stops, lowering his entire weight onto his body and peppering kisses over his face.

Mickey blows out a pleased breath and runs his hands through Ian's sweaty hair.

And in that moment, as the hormones flood their bodies--the endorphins, the oxytocin--as he feels so good, so right, Mickey runs his eyes over Ian's face, over every fuckin' freckle, every fuckin' pore, and he kisses his cheeks and his nose and his eyelids--those _freckly eyelids_ \--and he loves him more than anything in his entire life.

"That was the best thing," he manages to say, lips against Ian's skin. "The best fuckin' thing."

He feels a little drunk, maybe--a little stupid--but Ian just looks at him and looks at him, and he strokes his hair back off his forehead and rubs their noses together, and when he pulls back, Mickey sees tears in his eyes.

"Hey, hey, what's up?" he asks. Soothes. He rubs at Ian's cheeks with his thumbs.

Ian takes a deep breath, and his eyes fill even more, and he just presses his lips together and shakes his head once, twice, and says, voice so, so soft, "I can't believe you're real."

Mickey sniffs, and he realizes that maybe his eyes aren't so clear, either. Haven't been for a few minutes. He pets at Ian's ears and listens as he continues.

"I never thought in a million fuckin' years that my life would ever have someone like you in it."

And Mickey kisses him then--just pulls him in and captures his mouth--and it's soft and searching and loving. So, so, _so_ fucking _loving_.

He pours everything he has into that kiss. Gives Ian, with his lips and with his tongue, comfort and affection and promises and forevers and every single good thing he can ever hope to have, ever hope to give.

And when he pulls back, there's a tear on Ian's cheek, and he brushes it away, and Ian brushes his own thumb at the corner of Mickey's eye because _fuck_ , he's crying.

He's _crying_ , and he's in love, and Ian's looking at him like he can't believe he exists, like he's worried he's going to dissolve into the bedsheets.

He thinks he's maybe looking at him the same way.

And that's why Mickey says it. It's why he blinks once, twice. Why he takes a deep breath in, slow breath out.

Why he takes Ian by the sides of his face, pulls him in, in, feels him shift his hips, still inside him. Presses his lips to his mouth and rubs their noses together.

Says, voice a murmur. A breath.

"I fuckin' love you."

Ian makes a shaky sound, and Mickey feels a tear fall onto his own cheek, and Ian's kissing him and kissing him and saying, over and over and over again, _endlessly_ , "I love you. I love you. _Fuck_ , I love you."

It's the first time in his life anyone's told him that romantically. The first time in his life anyone's told him that with such passion, with such conviction.

He kisses Ian, and he runs his fingers all over his cheeks and his hair, and he feels safe and warm and happier than he ever thought it was possible to be--than that sixteen-year-old kid lying in bed, staring at the nicotine-stained ceiling could have ever imagined in his wildest dreams.

\---

Ian pulls out after a few minutes, holding onto the condom as he does.

He's _still_ a little hard, somehow, like a fuckin' superhuman, his cock lifted and tilted just slightly to the right.

He removes the used condom, grabs the one from earlier, and climbs off the bed to throw them away.

It's barely ten o'clock, and the bedroom lights are still on, and Mickey's not sleepy. But he does nothing but smile, but sigh contentedly when Ian stretches out on his side and pulls him against his chest, spooning him nice and snug.

Ian kisses at his neck, and they lie together like that for a while, just enjoying each other, smoothing their hands over one another's bodies.

Love feels good.

\---

\---

Mickey eventually gets out of bed to wash off his belly and feed the cat, and Ian gets up to pee.

They both make their way to the kitchen afterward and drink a Solo cup filled with tap water.

And when they make their way back to the bedroom this time, Mickey switches off the lights, and they climb properly into the bed, pulling the covers up over them.

They kiss for a while, and they run their hands all over each other. And after pausing to put on another condom, Ian slides his way back into Mickey, and they fuck slowly under the covers, the darkness giving them permission to groan openly, to plead with each other, and when they come, to murmur, "I love you, I love you," and "Fuck, _fuck_ , I love you."

They sleep for a while, then, cuddled together, all cozy and warm. But at a little after two, they find themselves doing it again, from a spooning position this time, Ian's hand stroking Mickey's cock in time with his thrusts, his teeth and lips pressing into his skin, sucking and biting when he pulses inside Mickey, coming for the fourth time that night. He strokes Mickey rapidly for just ten seconds longer, and Mickey bows his back and comes all over his fist.

Finally, they do it again at seven, when Mickey's alarm goes off.

"Noooo," Ian groans at the sound, pulling Mickey more snugly against his chest and squeezing their interlaced fingers together.

Mickey mumbles something so unintelligible that _he_ doesn't even know what he says and shuts off his alarm.

They have to meet Mrs. Callaghan for breakfast in an hour. He sighs, pulls Ian's hand up to his mouth, and gives him a kiss.

And when he turns to face him, wrapping his arm around his waist in a hug, he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment because he can't fuckin' _believe_ that he's waking up in bed with his boyfriend. Can't believe he's staring him in his beautiful, sleepy, puffy-eyed, freckly face after making love to him last night.

After telling him he loves him last night.

His stomach twists at the thought, and he noses at Ian's chest, against the ginger hair there, and kisses at his nipples.

They have morning breath, and not in a cute way, but both of them are too tired and lazy to get up to brush their teeth, so they keep their kisses light and closed-mouthed.

Ian grabs a condom from where he'd squished the box down between the mattress and the wall for easy access, and turns his head to yawn as he slides it on.

"We're fuckin' gross," Mickey grumbles, twisting over onto his back and running his fingers through the crusty, dried come on his belly.

Ian _mm_ s at that and, after pulling the lube out from under his pillow and slathering himself up, says, "We better be quick so we can shower."

"As long as you're not as quick as you were last night."

"Fuck you, Mick."

Mickey smirks. "Fine. Guess I'll let you."

And Ian laughs as he slides between his legs and pushes inside.

It _is_ relatively quick, and it's quiet, the two of them genuinely so very fucking tired. They just breathe in heavy gasps as Ian thrusts into him, torso held up by his arms, and as Mickey works himself in his fist.

Mickey comes first this time, a great shiver of an orgasm that sends tingles all the way to his toes. But Ian follows soon after, his thrusts speeding until he abruptly stops and makes one single little punctuated _ah_ sound before holding his breath and squeezing his eyes shut, letting the pleasure wash over him.

When he's done, he blows out his breath, relaxing into it, and drops down flat against Mickey.

Mickey desperately wants to go back to sleep, feeling nothing but safe and loved and drowsy from the warm weight of ginger dude stretched out atop him. But after allowing himself a few minutes to revel in the sensations, he slaps at Ian's ass and shoves him off.

\---

They shower together, doing nothing but sharing the space and the joys of the rain showerhead, and then get dressed.

Mickey pulls on a [black tank-top, jeans, and boots](https://66.media.tumblr.com/fd0ae35524285037d84687f614b36fff/164a822fb88e4149-40/s400x600/15920e3507fd9399cd337d20a8b380b041cf826a.gifv), and Ian dresses in a [dark green T-shirt, jeans](https://66.media.tumblr.com/cb13cae9b7308cabc140b5712ff9f379/832d09f032a94163-dc/s400x600/55ec96eb38f918970629d3fe2c7696166b0d5e73.gifv), and black Nikes.

Mickey kisses him twice--quick pecks on the lips--before they head out to Mrs. Callaghan's. "I'm warnin' you, man. She's crazy."

Ian rolls his eyes and gives him a skeptical look. "Based on everything I've heard, I'd say she's a nice old lady, and you're just a grumbly asshole."

"Fuck you."

Ian smirks and gives him an obnoxiously squeezy hug.

\---

When Mrs. Callaghan opens her door, Mickey's immediately hit with the smell of banana pancakes and bacon.

"Just in time," she announces, wrapping her arms around Mickey's shoulders in his second annoying hug in the past five minutes. "Mornin', Lovebug," she says, pulling out of the hug and giving him a pat on the cheek.

She turns to Ian. "And you must be Lovebug's lovebug."

And Mickey all of a sudden really, _really_ regrets this shit.

"Ian," Ian answers, tilting his head sweetly and smiling at her. Stupid, charming motherfucker.

Mickey slides past the two of them and makes his way into the apartment, leaving them to talk and giggle like fuckin' teenage girls.

Mrs. C.'s got the table already set, complete with three full plates containing pancakes, bacon, and half an orange each. There's a pitcher of water in the center of the table, and there's coffee in the pot on the counter, and maybe this was actually a really, _really_ good idea.

\---

"Sit down, sit down," Mrs. C. is saying a few minutes later, leading Ian into the kitchen.

Mickey's leaned back against the counter, sipping on black coffee in a Charlie Brown mug, and at his landlady's request, he has a seat at the table beside Ian.

It's stupid, but he feels a bit like a fuckin' teenager who's brought his friend home to meet his parents, everything Mrs. C. says embarrassing him, somehow, even though Ian seems to find her endlessly amusing.

Just like Mickey thought he would.

He fuckin' loves her though, really, and it surprises him how easily he thinks that this morning, munching away on his pancakes.

She's _caring_ , and she's kind, and as he watches Ian smile at her, listens to her ask him questions about his life, his family, and his career, he's happy that Ian gets to know her, too. Happy that Mrs. Callaghan gets to know Ian.

"You two look awfully tired," Mrs. Callaghan comments toward the end of breakfast, when Ian's leaned back in his tell-tale _full-beyond-reason_ pose and Mickey's chewing on the last of his bacon.

And she knows _exactly_ what she's doing and exactly what she's saying. Mickey narrows his eyes at her, and she tosses her head back and laughs gleefully.

"I'm just teasing. I'm glad you have each other." She smiles and reaches out to pat Ian's hand. "Love is a wonderful thing."

\---

When it's time to go and Ian has already hugged her and is now making his way toward the door, Mrs. Callaghan holds Mickey back in the kitchen.

"I love you, Mickey," she says, and it reminds him of eight months ago when she'd said those same words out on her porch as she invited him to spend Thanksgiving with her.

 _Fuck_ , Thanksgiving. He gets to spend it with Ian, this year. He _has someone to spend holidays with_. 

He's snapped out of his tangential daze by Mrs. C.'s arms pulling him into a hug.

And well, he relaxes into this one, just letting her hug him, letting himself hug her, soak up her warmth and her love.

"I'm so happy for you," she says as she releases him. "Ian's a good boy, and you deserve to have a good person to love you."

He already fuckin' cried less than twelve hours ago, and he ain't about to do it again.

He does sniff, though, and he smiles a little shakily when she pulls him in again and kisses his cheek. "Enjoy your day together."

Mickey's soft, soft when he murmurs, "Thanks," and just because--just because she makes his heart happy and because he's grateful to have her--he hugs her again and lets her squeeze him as much as she wants.

\---

Ian's waiting by the front door, and he has a kind look on his face. Mickey wonders how much he heard, and he figures it's a lot by the way he wraps his arm around his waist and holds on to him as they leave the apartment and make their way back upstairs.

Jovi greets them at the door with a trill, rubbing his furry little body back and forth against both his and Ian's legs.

"Hi, bud," Ian greets with a smile as he leans down and scoops up the cat.

Mickey walks into the middle of his living room and crosses his arms over his chest, giving his apartment a scan.

He breathes deeply as he watches Ian carry Jovi into the kitchen, set him down on the countertop, and, without even asking, go about filling his food bowl.

Mickey watches him, and he loves him, and he _loves him_ , and all he can think about is how much he wants him here every single morning, every single day.

Wants to wake up with him, have breakfast with him, spend weekends together when Ian's off work. Wants to watch him hug his fuckin' landlady and feed his cat.

Wants to go to bed with him, make love to him, learn all about the different ways to have sex and what he likes best and what feels so, so very good.

Wants to fall asleep with him at night after talking to him in those soft, soft hours, where it's dark, and it's quiet, and they whisper gentle things.

He walks over to Ian, who's pouring Cat Chow into Jovi's bowl, and wraps his arms around his waist from behind.

He feels his warmth, and he smells the scent of his own Irish Spring shower gel on his skin. He touches his fingers to the muscular plane of his belly that's a little soft in the middle due to his full stomach, and he loves him, and _he loves him_.

Ian sets down the cat food bag and places his hands overtop Mickey's, letting him hold on to him for a minute before smoothly turning and wrapping his arms around him, pulling him into his chest.

And there's so much love in him, so much warmth and safety and kindness. Things Mickey never thought he'd have, never thought he deserved.

Normal things. Beautiful things. Soft things.

Ian nuzzles his nose against his temple, and he squeezes him tight, and as Mickey stands there and closes his eyes, breathing in this man that fucking _loves him_ , he thinks maybe it's right that he has this. Maybe it's something he gets to have.

Maybe it's something he should have, deserves to have, even, as fucking _ridiculous_ , as _impossible_ as that sounds.

Maybe things that are normal and beautiful and soft are also made for scared Southside boys with threats tattooed on their knuckles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fun facts for Chapter 15:  
> -I’m, once again, blown away by the art created for Chapter 14. Please check out the work by [captainbaekho (link is to his art thread)](https://twitter.com/captainbaekho/status/1272986456802447360), [doodlevich](https://doodlevich.tumblr.com/post/620584379439251456/a-lot-of-guys-think-its-really-really-hot), and ArtofOBSESSION ([1](https://twitter.com/ArtofOBSESSION/status/1270806321894289409?s=20), [2](https://twitter.com/ArtofOBSESSION/status/1270179927975792640?s=20), [3](https://twitter.com/ArtofOBSESSION/status/1269772716317401088?s=20)). ❤️️❤️️❤️️
> 
> -Ian’s rent is high for him, but unfortunately, that’s about what you’re gonna pay if you want a safe apartment in that area.
> 
> -Ian was listening to the original version of "Check Yo Self" rather than the more popular remix. It is my humble opinion that the original is vastly superior.
> 
> -I know I’ve talked about playlists before, but I sort of scrapped my old idea and, instead, will be making an LRPD soundtrack once I’m finished. It will be an ordered list of songs referenced in each chapter or inspired by what the characters would be listening to at given moments (e.g. the songs Mickey’s listening to when he’s playing Ian’s “Misc.” playlist).
> 
> -Speaking of, when Ian switches the music while he and Mickey are eating, he totally puts on Spotify’s “Acoustic Love” playlist. 
> 
> -Whenever Mickey's wearing his shorts with his boots (both his uniform and his Fourth of July outfit), it looks like [this](https://i.ibb.co/4ZYTsb1/Screen-Shot-2020-06-14-at-8-31-24-PM.png), just dark brown boots instead of black. Also, I love Mickey in shorts. I had him cut his light-wash jeans into shorts that probably hit just above the knee and have slightly frayed edges. Combined with the boots and visible socks, he looks cool and fucking great. I have strong feelings about this. He has nice legs.
> 
> -The show presents these boys as having ridiculously brief refractory periods, so I’m gonna go with it. Ian being able to go again five minutes after coming? Absolutely. Maybe not always, but in this instance, in this particular situation? Yeah. Boy is overwhelmed.
> 
> -You may have noticed that the chapter count has increased to 18. There are STILL going to be only 17 fully-formed chapters, but the next update you will get will be a sex/domesticity interlude that will cover the time between the Fourth of July and the first week in August. The next real chapter is going to take place the week of Mickey’s birthday. I’m only doing this--and calling the next update an “interlude”--because I always try to have a theme for every chapter (this one was “love,” for example), and the next update is literally just going to be sex and domesticity vignettes. I haven’t decided yet, but it might also be written differently, like a 5+1 one-shot or something of the nature. We’ll see. This is a last-minute change.
> 
> I love you all so, so much. Thank you for your continued support, encouragement, and excitement. I’m so sorry I’ve basically stopped answering comments on here, but that is because I suck and also because it’s hard for me to get to them all. But please know that I read and cherish every single one.
> 
> Expect a similar week-ish gap until the next update. I should have it done sometime next week. I’ll let ya know!
> 
> ❤️️
> 
> Gray // [gallavichy](http://gallavichy.tumblr.com) // @GrayolaSays


	16. Love in Five Variations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot to be said for being in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which a month passes and love grows.
> 
> This one’s a little different! It’s structured as five different ways Ian and Mickey show their love for each other over the weeks between the Fourth of July (Chapter 15) and Mickey’s birthday week (Chapter 17). The vignettes aren’t in chronological order but are instead sorted by category.
> 
> I know some of you aren’t into the sex stuff, so if that’s the case for you, I would recommend skipping the first section after the preface and skimming the second section.
> 
> I hope you enjoy. I think this was my favorite chapter to write so far.

A year later, when he looks back on the month and change between the Fourth of July and his twenty-seventh birthday, Mickey will view it as a month of vulnerability, of growth, of _building_ something out of all the little pieces that he and Ian were and are--these two men who have fallen into each other, who are encased in a warm little cocoon of love and who want more than anything to transform together.

He’ll view it as a month of enormous _trust_ \--of learning how to be with someone in all the ways a person can. Of allowing Ian _in_ , of allowing _himself_ to touch and to smile, to stare and to enjoy the way his body works alongside another body. The way it feels to be held and kissed and fucked and _consumed_ , burned up with Ian in heat and flames, turned to ashes that mingle and mix--bits of Ian with bits of Mickey. 

More than that, he’ll view it as a month in which he allows himself, for the first time in his entire goddamn life, to be openly and fearlessly happy and to experience life in ways he never before imagined.

To experience _love_ in all its variations.

\---  
\---

_**Love is** your body plus my body._

Throughout his life, Mickey’s thought a lot about sex. And though he went perhaps a longer-than-average period of time without actually _having it_ with the type of person he wanted to have it with, he never felt like he was completely lost in the basics.

He was _nervous_ , sure, and it was difficult to anticipate all the intricacies and the feelings and the thread of first-time awkwardness. He was a little _clunky_ , maybe, a little shaky and unsure-- _unpracticed_ \--the first couple times. 

But overall, y’know, Mickey’d watched porn. He’d read shit on the Internet. He was nearly twenty-seven fucking years old and knew how bodies worked. 

Bottom line: sex wasn’t _that_ hard to figure out.

What he didn’t anticipate, and what he never could’ve known without actually experiencing it first hand, were all the _little_ things he finds he fuckin’ loves about it. The things people don’t talk about, really, and if they do, it’s in whispers.

Things like the feeling of Ian’s belly and pelvis pressed against his, this warm, heavy weight with the sharp edge of hip-bones.

He loves the feel of his body hair down there, too--fuzzy or coarse, depending on the angle--rubbing against him as he thrusts. 

There’s something so fuckin’ sexy about it all, this hard-boned, pressured, scrubby _grind_ when Mickey’s got his legs wrapped around Ian’s lower back as he moves inside him.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” Ian pushes out, sweat dripping down his forehead in beads that mix with the sweat on Mickey’s forehead as he touches their faces together. As he drops down more heavily on his body, that warm, heavy weight with that soft, fuzzy skin dragging deliciously against Mickey’s dick in a way that makes him pant.

Mickey scratches his blunt nails up and down the sweaty plane of Ian’s back, feeling Ian fuck into him hard, _relentlessly_ , thrusting like he’s still fully charged even ten minutes into the process.

Goddamn athletic motherfucker.

It’s hot as fuck, and Mickey feels his thighs beginning to shake, that tingle and pulse beginning somewhere deep inside him, and he knows it’s gonna be over soon-- _sooner_ as Ian apparently feels the throb and shifts his angle so he’s deliberately pressing against Mickey’s prostate with every torturous thrust.

Mickey slides his hands around Ian’s sides and pushes his arms up under his pits, grasping him around the upper back. 

“ _Fuck_ , Ian,” he groans, squeezing his eyes shut and pulling himself up a bit, doing his best to push back on Ian, turning his hard thrusts into a rough back-and-forth that hits Mickey in all the right ways.

“Yeah?” Ian asks, voice a pant--a hot, moist breath against Mickey’s mouth.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“Gonna fuck you so hard. Come inside you.” Ian drops down onto his elbows and hooks his arms beneath Mickey’s, hands cradling the back of his head, and with a series of groans that about send Mickey over the edge, starts to fuckin’ _pound_ into him, going so hard Ian’s headboard starts to bang against the wall.

“ _Jesus Christ_ ,” Mickey gasps, just holding on, just _taking it_. The heat’s in his back and his belly, the pleasure starting to rise, to build from that little place inside him that Ian’s cock strokes on every inward pass.

“Fuck me. _Oh_ fuck,” he pants, digging his nails into any bit of sweaty skin he can find, moving his hips in counterpoint to Ian’s, harder, _harder_ , as the wave starts to build and build, growing to its crest.

“ _Shit_ , Mickey,” Ian hisses, and his hips slow a little, like he’s nearing his own peak and isn’t sure whether he wants to hurl himself over the edge or hold back.

He’s panting like he’s fuckin’ dying, entire body red and sweaty, and he looks like he’s out of his mind when he pulls his head back from Mickey’s so he can stare at him.

“Come on, man,” Mickey encourages, knowing he’s probably just as red, just as sweaty. “Do it. Fuck me.”

Ian closes his eyes and smiles, then, _blissful_ , and Mickey loves him with everything he has.

He holds on to him as he starts to pick up the pace, as he builds Mickey’s orgasm back up, up, up, and this time, rather than slowing, pushes him over, fucking him hard enough that Mickey’s head slides up on the pillow and _bonks_ once against the headboard.

“God _fuckin_ ’-- _fuck_ ,” Mickey complains, breath coming hard and pushing out in the gaps in his words.

Ian grabs him by the shoulders to keep him from the headboard and thrusts four, five more times, hard, _hard_ \--

And then they’re laughing while they come, and Ian’s moaning but smiling and tilting over Mickey’s head to kiss the sore spot.

It’s the first time Mickey’s ever shivered out a deep, throbbing orgasm to the feeling of laugh-vibrations in Ian’s belly--in that heavy, warm weight pressed against his pelvis.

\---  
\---

Mickey likes sex.

After the Fourth of July, what had started off as once-per-week date sex turns into a regular part of his life and relationship with Ian.

They don’t do it _all the time_ , nor do they do it every single time they meet up. But after a couple weeks, he and Ian are having sex more nights than they aren’t. They don’t always spend the night together, but dinner and a round or two is the ending to about four days per week, and Mickey’s amazed at how good it feels to _have that_.

Goddamn.

He fucking _has that_ shit. He has a boyfriend who lets him straddle him on the chair at the fuckin’ kitchen table and kiss him after the meal they’ve cooked together. He has a boyfriend who sometimes jerks him off in that position or grabs him by the backs of the thighs and lifts him onto the table.

And _fuck_ , he has a boyfriend who will then tug his pants down or off and will blow him, hands sliding up and stroking at his heaving belly and chest, or maybe, like he does a few weeks in, will disappear for a minute to locate a condom and some lube and will then fuck him over the table, the silverware _jangling_ rhythmically in the empty dinnerplates.

He has a boyfriend who smiles when he comes, who likes to kiss during and afterward, and who, no matter how hard and sweaty or soft and sweet the act itself was, is gentle as fuck in the aftermath, whispering shit that makes Mickey’s cheeks flame up and his insides twist.

Ian had told Mickey once that he _makes him feel good_ , and Mickey’s understood what he meant by that countless times since, has felt just so unbelievably _good_ about himself, about his body and his sexuality and his _life_ in ways that would’ve seemed impossible back in November, when he was faced with spending Thanksgiving alone. When he hated himself more and more every day even as he became more and more a fuckin’ _productive member of society_.

It’s bizarre to think that now, in July, he’s got a man who blows raspberries on his belly when they’re being stupid in bed, who sucks hickeys onto his skin--sometimes on purpose, sometimes by accident--and who now texts him things like

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Ian (1:02 AM):** Goodnight. I love you. ❤️️

\-------------------------------------------------------

Ian _makes him feel good_ in every way a person can feel good. 

\---

And the thing is, Ian’s so _open_ about it.

“I wanna make you feel good,” he whispers to him one morning as they’re stretched out naked in Mickey’s bed. 

It’s edging toward the end of July, and they’re doing this, now--lounging together naked. They’d spent the night at Mickey’s place and woken up with a slow, leisurely fuck, Mickey hugging the pillow beneath him and Ian draped over his back, kissing his shoulders tenderly as he thrusted into him in long, slow, in-and-out drags.

It’s been about an hour since then, and they’ve cleaned up and smoked a couple cigarettes and shared an oversized mug of coffee Mickey’d padded naked to the kitchen to make.

Mickey doesn’t really know how to respond to Ian’s statement, so he just scratches at his belly and raises his eyebrows at him.

And he’s maybe a little floored when Ian says the next thing, which is, “Will you let me eat your ass?”

He’s patting his own stomach when he asks it, this idle little drum beat like he’s nervous, and then he smiles at Mickey, who gapes.

Mickey manages to close his mouth after a minute, and he bites at his lip instead, trying to present himself as quite a bit more nonchalant than he feels. 

Taking a deep breath, he shrugs. “If you insist,” he says, going for playful.

Ian leans in and presses a kiss to his lips. “I do insist. Roll over, bitch.”

\---

It’s not like Ian’s never been back there. He _has_. Just never for long and never for anything more than teasing bites to his cheeks and maybe one or two kisses to the space between as he spread him open to get him ready for his cock.

But he’s never _rimmed_ him.

And _damn_ , Mickey’s really into this shit, having jerked off more times than he can count over a porn video titled “Soft Boyfriend Tongue-Fuck.”

He’s nervous, though, twisting onto his belly and shifting around as Ian slides a pillow under his hips, propping him up. 

He used to imagine this sometimes when he was a teenager. It was the dirtiest thing he could think of, and in spite of or maybe _because_ of that, it was always a go-to jerk-off fantasy when he really wanted to come hard.

Even so, he always felt a little sad afterward in a way it was difficult to articulate to himself. This shit was _dirty_ , he thought, but also fuckin’ _personal_ , like one of the most intimate things you could have done to you. The thought that anyone would ever want to be close enough to him to do it in the way he wanted it seemed ridiculous.

But well, “I love your ass,” is what Ian whispers when he’s nearly twenty-seven, pressing a series of squeaky kisses to his cheeks. He pinches him a little, being playfully sweet, and then uses his palms to spread him open.

“FYI,” Ian says, sliding his thumbs just inside his crack and applying the littlest bit of pressure, opening him as much as possible. “I’ve never actually done this before.”

Mickey turns his head to look at him sceptically. “Really.”

Ian shrugs--this _yeah, whatever_ shrug--and gives Mickey’s cheeks a squeeze. “Just something I’ve never gotten around to. Kinda up close and personal, man. Definitely didn’t wanna do it with clients.”

_But you wanna do it with me?_ is what Mickey wants to ask, but he doesn’t get a chance.

Ian leans in and places a sucking kiss right at the top of his crack, and Mickey blows out a breath and turns back to stare at the headboard.

“I was serious when I said I wanted to kiss every inch of you,” Ian whispers, kissing him there again, this time soft, open, and lingering. 

“ _Fine_. Whatever,” Mickey grumbles, pretending to be simply _tolerating_ Ian’s ministrations. He jerks when he feels a playful slap to his left cheek.

“Lemme work my magic, grumble-pants.”

“Grumble-pants?”

“Shut up.” Ian laughs in warm little puffs against Mickey’s ass as he leans in and touches his tongue directly against his hole.

“ _Ian_.”

Ian drags his tongue along his crack--just a gentle, gentle little stroke with the very tip--and Mickey about loses his mind.

He buries his face in the pillow and blows out hot breaths into the fabric as Ian continues to lick at him, his tongue pushing more and more firmly into his crack with each pass. 

Ian stops every so often to kiss at him--these warm, open-mouthed things--and at the change in sensation, Mickey humps his dick into the pillow under him, once, twice, and freezes again when Ian gets his wet tongue back on him.

He thinks about how he’s probably still a little stretched from the fuck earlier and how every tongue-touch to his hole goes in just the tiniest bit. 

Mickey feels Ian’s hot breath against him, and there’s a bit of a burn as his cheeks are pulled further apart, but then Ian’s got his entire mouth over his opening, darting his tongue on him and against him and sort of _inside him_ in rhythmic pulses.

“ _Fuck_ , Ian,” Mickey murmurs, mouth muffled, and begins a slow but steady grind into the pillow beneath his hips.

Ian lets go of his cheek with his left hand and slides it down and under, fumbling for Mickey’s dick, which is sandwiched between the pillow and his belly.

“Get up on your knees a little,” he says, leaning back and using his right hand to pat encouragingly at Mickey’s hip.

Mickey pushes up until he’s got his ass in the air, his upper body still flat on the bed, and he hears the squeak of his mattress as Ian shifts around to find a comfortable position.

He strokes Mickey’s cock up and down once, twice, leaning his face back in and giving him sucking little kisses, but it’s hard to get at his hole, probably, with only one hand spreading him open. Mickey slides his own right hand down and takes hold of himself, giving Ian the freedom to do what he wants.

In response, Ian presses an affectionate kiss to his left cheek and uses both hands to pull him all the way open again.

It’s the hottest fucking thing Mickey’s ever experienced.

And yeah, it’s _dirty_ , maybe, but _he_ doesn’t feel dirty. Ian loves the hell out of him with his tongue, and there’s parts of it that are sweet and parts of it that are fuckin’ _filthily wet_ , and when Ian gets his tongue _inside him_ , wiggling it a bit in a gentle fuck, Mickey thinks he’ll die of good things.

“I can’t believe you’re fuckin’ doin’ this,” he moans through a pant, jerking himself quickly enough that his arm’s beginning to tire.

He slows his strokes, squeezes his eyes shut, and focuses on breathing.

Ian kisses at him, his tongue extended about an inch and a half inside him, and it makes this loud, wet, slurping sound that causes Mickey’s face to flame up and his cock to surge a stringy drip of pre-come onto the pillow beneath his hips.

Ian pulls back, and Mickey turns his head enough to see him wipe the drool off his chin with the back of his hand. 

He leans over and grabs the tube of lube from where he always keeps it stored squished between the mattress and the wall along with the box of condoms, and squeezes a dollop onto his fingertips.

Mickey buries his face back in the pillows when Ian easily slides in his index and middle fingers and starts up a moderate-speed thrust.

He leans in and, tilting his face to the side, tongues at the skin around Mickey’s hole, dragging down to lap and suck at his scrotum from below.

It’s so, _so_ fucking good that Mickey can do nothing but grunt like the dude in that porn video, like he’s losing it, unable to so much as exhale without making some sort of noise.

“ _Fuck_ , Mickey,” Ian says, breath hot against his ass, “Come on.”

He jerks himself at a fevered pace, and _fuck_ , he’s so fucking wet. Ian keeps up the thrusting with his fingers, not adding more than two but doing the most intensely amazing things with those alone, twisting and crooking and touching at his prostate until Mickey can hardly stand it.

“Here, lemme--” The mattress creaks as Ian gets up on his knees, stretching his spine out to its full height and then sort of draping himself halfway across Mickey’s body so he can take his dick in his left hand, right hand still moving in steady little pushes into him.

Mickey lets go of his cock and gets both his elbows on the mattress, going up on all fours in an attempt to stabilize himself, his legs going all wobbly as the pleasure rises.

He squeezes his eyes shut and bites at his lip when Ian’s hand begins a firm, measured stroke up and down his cock, pausing periodically to touch at the wet, messy head.

“Leaky boy,” Ian teases, pressing a kiss to Mickey’s back, and there’s something about it that makes Mickey _whine_.

Ian laughs a little, thrusting fingers picking up the pace, and rubs his thumb over the slit, stroking through the new bloom of wetness Mickey had practically _felt_ drip out of him. “Liked that, didn’t you?”

“Shut up,” Mickey groans, embarrassed, and Ian just chuckles fondly and resumes the dual strokes.

“I think it’s so fuckin’ hot, man. _Holy shit_.”

Mickey _hm_ s and starts to push back against Ian’s hand.

Something about the rimming and the teasing and now the fingering has left Mickey teetering on the edge for minutes, his body just rocking at that crest, millimeters away from tipping.

He’s sweating, can see drips of it on the pillow beneath his head, and if this ain’t a testament to how much his stamina’s improved over the past few weeks, he doesn’t know what is.

“Ready to come?” Ian asks before mouthing at his ass again, just beneath his thrusting fingers.

Mickey can’t answer, just groans, and Ian chuckles and starts focusing the pressure of his fingertips, aiming directly at his prostate in gentle pushes that send electricity through Mickey’s body--kicks and sparks that radiate from inside him and burn him up in aching little pleasure-tingles.

“Come on,” Ian whispers, and it sounds so fuckin’ sweet and soft, like he’s encouraging him to do anything, really, and Mickey blows out a breath and starts to _shake_.

The shape of Ian’s fingers inside him makes the tight, rhythmic squeezes at the beginning of his orgasm feel more obvious than when his dick’s in him, and Mickey mumbles out nonsense followed by “fuck, _fuck_ ” when he feels himself start to come.

“Jesus Christ,” Ian’s saying, and he’s groaning a little, too, clearly turned on by Mickey’s ass clamping down on his fingers, and suddenly he speeds up both hands, giving Mickey all he can.

Mickey drops down, elbows giving out, and takes it, fucking _takes it_ , fuck, and when he comes, it’s with a muffled shout into the pillow.

He comes _hard_ \--so hard Ian actually comments on how he feels inside--but Mickey’s too gone to recognize more words than “squeezing” and “so fuckin’ sexy” as his dick jerks and pulses out three jets of come all over his own goddamned pillows.

He moans weakly when he’s done, and Ian gentles him with a couple more strokes and then slowly pulls out and away.

He disappears for a few minutes, and Mickey can hear water running in the bathroom as he presumably washes his hands, brushes his teeth, and wets a washcloth.

“Hey. Roll over,” Ian says softly when he returns, and Mickey grumbles a bit--tired, drained--but obeys with a “ _god-fucking-dammit_ ” when Ian touches the rapidly-cooling wet washcloth to his ass without warning.

“That was hot,” Ian comments once he’s got Mickey stretched out on his back and is busy wiping him down. He runs the washcloth over his belly, mopping up the bits of come that had smeared onto him from the pillow, then gently dabs at his softening dick and his pubes in a way that’s so sweet and so completely loving that Mickey almost feels embarrassed.

“Hi,” Ian says afterward, stretching up and over and pressing his lips to Mickey’s forehead.

And the act itself may have been the filthiest thing Mickey could conjure up when he was a horny teenager, but in this moment, Mickey feels nothing but love.

He wraps his arms around Ian’s torso and pulls him on top of him.

Mickey feels his hard cock against his upper thigh, and if he concentrates enough, he thinks he can feel a bit of wetness at the tip, dragging across his skin.

“I love you,” he says, nosing at his cheek.

Ian smiles and turns to press a kiss to his lips.

And when Mickey rolls him off him a few minutes later and gets his mouth around his cock, he does the best he can to give Ian every ounce of tenderness that was given to him.

\---

Mickey likes sex.

He likes the way Ian makes him feel and the way he gets to make Ian feel. Likes the fingers in his hair and the salty taste in his mouth and the breathy little moans that he pulls from his boyfriend.

Likes how they hold each other afterward, two sweaty, flushed men flooded with pleasure hormones that make it hard to do anything but kiss and run gentle fingers across one another’s skin.

He likes sex with Ian, and he likes all the pleasure that comes along with it.

He likes sex with Ian because--no matter how hard or soft, fast or slow--it always feels like love.

\---  
\---

_**Love is** sharing secrets._

Turns out, they _are_ one of those couples with a weekly date night.

Though Ian’s work schedule isn’t always super consistent, he’s usually off on either Saturday or Sunday each week--sometimes both--and he and Mickey often go out for dinner the night before and then return to one of their apartments for a sleepover.

It’s Friday night, and they’ve had dinner at a wood-fired pizza joint and then returned to Ian’s place to watch Netflix and have fun, teasing sex on the couch.

They’re in bed by midnight, snuggled up naked and sharing a pillow, and Mickey’s got his head resting against Ian’s shoulder as he watches him fuck around on the kestrel app.

They don’t talk about it in detail much, the definitive change in their relationship status causing them to tiptoe around that part of Ian’s life more than they had in the past. But Ian does tell him when he has new clients and when any of the older ones cancel, and though he’s perhaps more guarded in describing what he _does_ with them, he’s much more open with the finer details of the app itself.

He’s showing Mickey how it works, clicking through the various tabs Mickey’s only ever seen before in a screenshot, and he lets him look at some of the profile pictures of his clients and read a few of the funnier chats and emails.

Everybody’s old, and everybody’s embarrassing, and it’s actually really fucking hilarious to read Ian role-playing boss and secretary with some dude named Allen.

“But _then_ ,” Ian says, backing out of that chat and scrolling down to the bottom of his list, where he’s got a chat thread starred and filtered as “Important.” The name’s gone, and there’s no profile picture, but when Ian clicks it, Mickey immediately flushes.

“Then there’s _this_ guy.”

It’s his chat thread with Mickey, and it’s been months since they’ve messaged through the app, and it’s even been over a month since Mickey cancelled altogether, and yet Ian’s kept it. 

“That shit’s embarrassing,” Mickey says, fighting a smile. 

Ian turns to him, his face lit by only the screen of his phone, and whispers, “Wanna know a secret?”

“Hm?”

“I still go back and read our conversations sometimes.”

Mickey snorts. “ _Why_?”

“Because you’re cute.”

“Shut up.” Mickey smacks his arm.

“You were so _cranky_ in the beginning.”

“You were annoying as fuck.”

“And yet.” Ian sets his phone down on the mattress and shifts onto his side, facing Mickey. He gets his arm around his waist and presses their foreheads together.

Mickey sighs and reaches up with his left hand to touch at Ian’s face. “And yet.” It’s a whisper.

They kiss for a while, and it’s slow and soft. It’s warm, and they sigh into it, and Ian strokes at Mickey’s bare back with his fingertips and nuzzles his nose.

The whole time, all Mickey can think about is how that _sarcastic little punk_ , how dorky-ass _Ian, 23 years old, from Chicago_ is his boyfriend.

Is probably the love of his fuckin’ life.

They settle down after a few minutes and resume their previous positions. Ian checks just one more thing on the app--his upcoming schedule--and Mickey pulls his lips into his mouth when he sees he has two video sessions scheduled for the upcoming week with “Ken” and “Mark.”

“Sorry,” Ian says, closing out the app.

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Make your money, man.” 

He blows out a breath and twists a bit until he can get a hand on Ian’s chest. “Gotta pay for this fuckin’ nine-hundred dollar apartment,” he murmurs with a yawn, idly scratching his fingers through his chest hair. “Which ain’t fuckin’ worth it, by the way. It’s like livin’ in that motel on South Halsted.”

“It’s not _that_ bad.”

“Your shower’s like somebody’s fuckin’ spittin’ on you.”

Ian puts his phone on his nightstand and rolls over onto Mickey, caging him in with his arms. “ _Excuse me_ , Mr. Rain Showerhead.”

“You’re not excused.”

“I’m not, huh?”

Mickey gets his arms up around Ian’s neck and starts to slowly pull him down. “Nope.”

“Okay,” Ian whispers when their lips are an inch apart. He kisses him. “Sure.”

They have fun, teasing sex for the second time that night, Ian rolling Mickey around playfully before grabbing a condom and settling between his legs.

They wrestle, and they laugh, and Mickey calls him a dick in between pants.

“Any other complaints?” Ian asks near the end of it, when Mickey’s sarcastic comments have started to peter out in favor of “ _fuck_ ,” and “harder.”

“Your bed’s creaky,” Mickey manages to push out, eyes rolling back in his head as Ian’s cock hits him _just_ there, pressing so, so incredibly good at that place inside him that shoots sparks through his nerve endings.

As if to rub in the creakiness, Ian starts to rock into Mickey harder and faster, filling the room with _eek-eek-eek_ squeaks and causing the bed to actually sound like it’s about to break apart the closer and closer they get to orgasm.

It makes them laugh, and they kiss through it, and Mickey smacks Ian’s ass to get him to slow down.

“Dumbfuck,” he says with affection, running his nose up and down Ian’s cheek.

Ian stops altogether for a moment and presses up on his arms to look down at him. “And yet,” he says, thrusting once, twice, so, so slow and gentle.

Mickey tugs at his arms so he’ll get back flush against him and wraps his own arms around his neck. “And yet.”

They kiss, and they breathe each other’s breath, and Ian doesn’t so much thrust as gently grind their way to orgasms that are quiet and gaspy and full of _everything_.

Afterward, Ian strokes Mickey’s sweaty hair and murmurs, just as they’re settling to sleep, “The money’s good, but you’re my favorite fuckin’ thing about that stupid app.”

Mickey’s breathless for a second, but then he manages to say, mouth pulling into a smirk, “You sayin’ I was your favorite client this whole fuckin’ time?”

Ian shrugs and gently scratches his nails against Mickey’s scalp. “It’s a secret.”

\---  
\---

They’re at Mickey’s place the next time they’re on the phone in bed. 

It’s barely eight in the morning, and Jovi had woken them up when he’d gotten into bed with them like a fuckin’ kid wanting to sleep with his parents.

“Get down,” Mickey grumbles at him, gently pushing at him with his forearm. Jovi just purrs and purrs at the contact and curls himself into a snuggly little ball on the pillow above Ian’s head.

Ian’s eyes are puffy from lack of sleep--the two of them having stayed up until nearly three playing video games--but he smiles and reaches a hand up to stroke the cat’s fur. 

They lie there quietly for a while. Mickey stares at the image of Ian and his cat with a fondness he knows must shine across his face.

“Still wanna see that movie?” Ian asks after several minutes, turning on his side and draping his arm across Mickey’s waist. He absentmindedly plays with the fabric of his T-shirt.

They’d talked about getting lunch and catching the matinee of the new alien movie. Mickey nods and reaches for Ian’s phone on the nightstand because it’s closer.

It twists his belly a bit when he thinks about how comfortable he is with this shit now. It not only feels natural to use Ian’s phone, but he also knows his fuckin’ passcode by heart (050996).

Yawning, Mickey clicks the Safari app in order to do a search for movie times and immediately turns his yawn into a laugh when he sees the page that comes up.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Ian exclaims, snatching the phone away. “You asshole.”

Mickey smirks at him and pokes his chest. “Why am _I_ an asshole?”

“Shut up.” 

Ian’s face is red, and his neck above his white T-shirt is getting splotchy, and it’s absolutely the cutest fucking thing Mickey’s ever seen. “What were you watchin’?” Mickey prods, scooting closer.

“I hate you.”

“Mmhm.”

Ian looks at him for a moment, eyes narrowed, and then sighs. “Whatever.” He hands Mickey back his phone.

It’s a porn site, and it’s a bareback compilation, and Mickey’s fucking _thrilled_ by the whole thing and especially by Ian’s blushy reaction.

And well, Mickey _knew_ Ian watched porn, knew he jerked off on his own time like most dudes, but seeing the evidence of it before him sends warmth into his belly, into his cock and his thighs.

The bareback stuff isn’t knew information, either, but _fuck_ , if it isn’t hot. The video’s paused at 4:42, and Mickey’s cheeks heat when he thinks about how Ian’d probably stopped it after he came.

“It’s hot, man, shut up,” Ian says as if making excuses for his choice of porn, and Mickey could tease the hell out of him--and he still might--but right now he’s cool with just giving Ian a reassuring kiss on the neck. 

He taps “play” on the video soon after, though, resulting in a kick under the covers.

And it _is_ hot. Mickey just settles in and watches it like he’s watching anything, and eventually, Ian sighs and twists so he can watch it with him.

“You wanna do that with me?” Mickey asks as the video nears the end.

Ian nods against his temple. “Got an appointment on August sixth for my last check.”

Mickey tilts his head to look him in the eye. “We don’t have to wait, y’know. You’re fine.”

Not to mention, Mickey’s probably swallowed a cup of his semen at this point, and he knows the oral transmission rate’s low, but hell. It’s not like they’ve been playin’ it safe in general.

Ian shrugs and gently bumps his head against Mickey’s. “I know. But I told you I wanna do this shit right.” He pauses for a moment and works his mouth as if he’s not sure whether to continue. 

Finally, he says, voice soft, “I’ve just had a lot of risky and probably unhealthy sex in my life. Stuff when I was manic. The club shit. Even when I was hooking up for fun, I wasn’t doing it bareback, but I wasn’t really bein’ safe. I’m ninety-nine percent sure I’m clean, but like. I wanna do this so I _know_.” He shrugs again. “And I just haven’t always been responsible for a whole shit-ton of reasons, and I wanna be this time. With you.”

Mickey smiles at him. Nods. “Got it.”

Ian nods back and gets an arm around his waist.

Miraculously, the cat’s still purring away on Ian’s pillow, and the two of them allow themselves to settle for a minute, snuggling into each other.

Eventually, though, Ian sighs and asks, corner of his mouth creeping up into a smile, “What’s your favorite porn?”

There’s a lot of things Mickey could say and do right now. He could tell Ian to fuck off, or he could get out of bed, or he could slide down under the covers and distract him with a blowjob.

But well, who the fuck cares, really. He knows about Ian’s favorite porn, and the two of them even watched the last four fuckin’ minutes of an eight minute compilation together.

He holds out his hand.

“Really?” Ian asks, grinning and placing his phone on Mickey’s palm.

“Whatever, fuckhead. Shut up.”

Mickey opens up Safari again and does a search on the porn site. He can’t remember the video title exactly, but he remembers the keywords he always uses to find it: _make love boyfriend hotel_.

It’s called, errors and all, “Hot blond Make love to boyfiend” and it’s the white-sheeted hotel bed riding video, and Mickey knows he’s probably racked up at least a hundred of the video’s fourteen thousand views.

Flushing so much he feels it in his eyes, Mickey hands the phone to Ian, who’s looking at him like he’s amazed.

“What?” Mickey asks, running a hand over his face.

Ian stares at him for a moment, not even caring about the phone, and says, “‘Make-love-boyfriend-hotel.’ You are _so_ fucking cute.”

“Fuck you.”

Ian laughs breathily like he’s having the best fucking time and finally brings his phone up to watch the video.

It’s thirteen minutes long and begins with soft, twinkling music, kissing on the bed, and occasional pans to the wall-to-ceiling windows behind the men, revealing the ocean in the distance.

There are mutual blowjobs and a minute of the blond gripping the headboard as he gets banged doggy-style, but then the last six minutes are just the blond riding at varying speeds and positions until he comes and then the top pulling out and jerking off onto his stomach.

“Damn,” Ian comments, giving Mickey a look.

“Shut up.”

They don’t watch the whole thing, mostly skimming the first five minutes, but Ian seems ridiculously into the riding bit--Mickey’s favorite bit.

“Is this a particular interest of yours?” he asks, breath a little fast. 

Mickey shrugs. “I dunno, man. Maybe.”

“Hotel. White sheets. Riding.” Ian wiggles his eyebrows a little, and Mickey smacks his arm. 

And, y’know, what the fuck. He shoves Ian over onto his back and climbs on top.

Jovi actually wakes at that with an annoyed _brrr_ and hops down off the bed.

Ian stops the video, sets the phone down on Mickey’s vacated pillow, and grips his hips. “Are you gonna give me a _demonstration_?”

Mickey stares at him for a minute, contemplating his angle. And finally, with a shrug, he says, “I don’t have white sheets.”

Ian laughs and hooks his fingers in the waistband of Mickey’s boxers. “It’s fine. I think we’ll manage.”

\---

Mickey’s ridden Ian before, so this isn’t exactly new, but the context of it makes Mickey blush like a motherfucker as he lowers himself onto Ian’s cock.

Because Ian knows now that riding on a white-sheeted hotel bed is sort of a fantasy of his, and Mickey feels a little embarrassed as he shifts his hips and rocks on him.

“ _God_ , you’re so fuckin’ hot,” Ian whispers, pulling him down so he can kiss at his face. “ _Shit_.”

It’s a slow, satisfying fuck, Mickey alternating between using his knees to push up and down at a measured pace, hands pressing on Ian’s sweaty chest for leverage, and bending flush against him and rocking in a gentle grind so they can make out and pant hot breath into each other’s faces.

But near the end, Ian grips at Mickey’s hips and pulls him forward, encouraging him to push up on his knees. Getting his feet flat against the mattress, Ian thrusts up and up and up into him--hard and fast--the meeting of their bodies making a slapping sound in the quiet of the apartment.

Mickey groans and squeezes his eyes shut, feeling the quick, quick thrusts hitting at him in just the _perfect fucking way_ , and gets his hand on himself.

He doesn’t last much longer.

His fevered strokes to his cock combined with Ian’s impressive pistoning-- _goddamn athletic motherfucker_ \--sends him quickly to the edge and then over in a loud moan that Ian tries to capture with his mouth, pulling Mickey down until he collapses against him and kissing the absolute hell out of him.

Ian keeps lazily rocking his hips upward, and even though he’s lacking leverage due to Mickey’s new position, it’s enough to get him there. He comes with a whine and a full-body tremble, and Mickey gets his hand down and runs it across Ian’s straining thigh, gentling him through it.

“ _Fuck_ , I love you,” Ian pushes out in the space between their faces, sliding a hand up to the back of Mickey’s head and pulling him in for a kiss. “You’re so fuckin’ sexy.” Kiss. “Make-love-boyfriend-hotel.”

“God _dammit_.” Mickey snorts and sits up, leaning back against Ian’s bent legs. “What’s wrong with you?”

Ian laughs and places his hands on Mickey’s thighs, stroking them up and down, soothing the overworked muscles. “You’re sweet.”

“I don’t know why I showed you that shit.”

“I wanna know everything about you.”

Mickey looks at him then, and he sees something so soft slide across his face, this gentleness that reminds him of late-night phone calls--of whispers in the dark.

He sniffs, and he shrugs, and he places his palms on Ian’s chest, rubbing affectionately over his pecs.

Ian smiles at him. “Your secret’s safe with me,” he says, and it’s cheesy as fuck, but Mickey knows he’s being genuine.

He nods and slowly, slowly, bends back down and presses a gentle kiss to his lips.

\---

Mickey climbs off him a few minutes later, and Ian gets rid of the condom and snatches a Kleenex from Mickey’s nightstand to deal with the drying come they keep finding in weird and random places on their bodies.

Once they’re settled, the two of them on their backs with Mickey’s head resting on Ian’s arm, Jovi hops back on the bed and curls up at their feet.

Ian kisses his cheek, and Mickey closes his eyes.

And really, everything about this just feels great.

He fucking _loves_ Ian, and he loves his goddamned cat, and well, Ian knows something about him now that he considers _incredibly_ personal.

And he knows shit about Ian, too.

Mickey has a boyfriend, and they have _secrets_ , and it gives him a kick to the heart when he thinks about how he’s managed to have such intimacy with someone. With a _boy_.

It embarrasses him a little, maybe, because it’s new. It’s unfamiliar. He _never_ had a confidant, never had a person with whom he could be open about things like porn preferences and sexual fantasies. 

_Never_.

Now that he has it, he’s amazed. And yeah, he wants to know everything about Ian, too. He wants to know weird shit about him and mundane shit about him and all these little intimate things you do and think but never tell anyone.

He wants to _know him_.

Biting his lip, Mickey snuggles in, and he contemplates what he’s going to say.

And when he says it, he knows based on the expression on Ian’s face that it’s exactly the right thing.

“Tell me about your first kiss,” he whispers, tilting his head toward Ian’s.

Ian smiles, and his cheeks flush, and he says, “Okay. Yeah,” and tells him about his first kiss with a girl in third grade and then his first kiss and subsequent first time with Roger “Donkey Dick” Spikey in the high school locker room. 

Mickey snorts at him, and he kisses at his skin, and he listens to every embarrassing little thing Ian wants to tell him.

And he thinks, as he lies there, warm and happy and satisfied, that he’s never felt more in love.

\---  
\---

**_Love is_ ** _vulnerability._

Mickey spends the night at the Gallagher house one Saturday in late July.

It was normally going to be their date night, but Ian had called him at a little after noon to tell him he’d been asked to babysit Franny because the kid’s mom had some kind of _thing_ or...whatever. Something about shacking up with a rich bitch for money. It was a long story, and Ian fuckin’ talked a lot, and Mickey got a little lost along the way.

And well, Mickey didn’t _have_ to go, but Ian had asked him to come instead of cancelling the night altogether, so, fine. He agreed.

He threw on a black T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, his light wash jeans with the rip in the knee, and his black Timbs, and met Ian at the Gallagher house at six.

Now he’s been there for an hour, and he’s eating mac and cheese at the kitchen table with Franny and Liam, and someone’s got one of Frank’s old [ELO cassettes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5uE4x9O3MXM) playing on the stereo in the living room, the sound filtering into the kitchen just enough to smooth out the sharp edges of the awkwardness Mickey feels.

Ian putters around the kitchen for a while, cleaning up, before slowly making his way over to the table with his own bowl and joining them.

Franny’s been eyeing Mickey ever since he got there--never saying anything, just staring and turning away when Mickey catches on.

“‘sup?” he greets with his mouth full, nodding at her. She’d picked the chair right beside Mickey to sit in, legs folded under her so she’s high enough to reach her bowl. He sort of wants to gently poke the bun on her head to see what she’ll do, but he doesn’t.

Franny looks at him cautiously and then grabs her spoon, scooping up a huge mound of macaroni and shoving it messily into her mouth.

Ian and Liam talk about random brother shit. Liam’s a mature kid--smart and level-headed--and Mickey likes him alright. 

Mickey shovels in his mac and cheese and listens to them talk, interjecting every once in a while with advice that Ian narrows his eyes at. But c’mon, there are multiple ways to deal with a neighborhood bully but none as effective as taking a baseball bat to their shit.

Franny’s startlingly quiet as she eats, not doing much of anything other than getting cheese _all over_ her mouth and a little down the front of her purple, unicorn-pattern T-shirt.

“Doin’ okay, Fran?” Ian asks, reaching across the table to tap at her Peppa Pig placemat.

She nods. 

But then, knitting her ginger brows together like she’s thinking a very complicated thought, she sets down her spoon and asks, voice mousy and high-pitched, “Uncle Ian, are you and Mickey getting married?”

Only she pronounces her r’s like w’s, so her _married_ sounds more like _mawwied_.

Mickey chokes--like actually inhales a noodle--and Liam has to reach over and pound him on the back with his fist.

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” he sputters, grabbing his beer and chugging a third of it.

To be fair, Ian also looks like he’s swallowed a grapefruit, his face red and breath coming a little gaspy.

“They’re just _dating_ , Franny,” Liam corrects.

“Do you _love_ Mickey?” she asks Ian then, and her l’s also sound like w’s, so she really asks whether Ian _wuvs_ him.

Ian smiles a little and looks down at his plate. “Yeah, Franny. I do.”

And she waves her little hands around as she says, “Why don’t you _mawwy_ him?” as if this is the single most serious and frustrating conversation she’s ever had in her life--one she’s been working herself up to for the last hour.

Mickey’s still coughing, but he manages to lock eyes with Ian, who rolls his own eyes good-naturedly, perhaps a bit embarrassed. 

“Maybe one day,” he says, clearly putting effort into keeping his tone even. “We love each other, Fran, but we’ve only been dating for a couple months, and we wanna get to know each other better first.”

As Ian fumbles over his words, even going so far as to reach out a hand to hold Franny’s as he continues to explain it to her, Liam leans over and murmurs, “This is awkward.”

Mickey quirks his eyebrows at him and nods once.

\---

After dinner, Mickey helps Liam clear the table and wash the dishes while Ian takes Franny upstairs to clean her face and get her into her pajamas.

“Did you and my brother meet on Grindr?” Liam asks, taking a bleach-stained dish towel from the counter and standing by the sink with Mickey, who sets in to wash.

Mickey _hm_ s and squirts some Walmart brand dish soap onto a sponge. “Sorta.” He shrugs, scrubbing up a plate. “He tell you shit about us?”

“Nah. He’s pretty quiet about his life.”

That’s surprising to Mickey. He tilts the plate under the running water, rinsing it off, then hands it over to Liam to dry.

“He’s a good brother,” Liam adds thoughtfully. “Lip’s kinda like a dad and Carl’s…Carl. But Ian just does a good job at being a brother.”

Mickey nods at that because he can imagine it perfectly. He washes another plate in silence.

“So _are_ you gonna marry him?” Liam asks, taking the plate Mickey’s just rinsed and drying it off with the dish towel. “One day, I mean.”

“The fuck’s up with you little Gallaghers?”

“The fuck’s up with _who_?” Ian suddenly interjects, coming down the stairs with Franny on his shoulders.

She’s in blue pajamas with white stars, and the edges of her hair are wet where Ian washed her face.

“Twampowine!” she begs, patting Ian’s head like a drum.

Ian rolls his eyes--no heat in it, just exasperation after having clearly been bugged about it the entire time they were upstairs. 

“Thirty minutes, Fran.” He looks over at Liam and Mickey. “Wanna go?”

\---

The Gallaghers had gotten a full-size trampoline from somewhere, and Carl and his girlfriend had put it up in the back yard earlier in the day.

“I give it three days before a homeless dude’s sleeping under it,” Ian notes, bending over so Franny can climb off his shoulders onto the springy surface.

“The homeless dude’ll probably be Frank,” Liam says, kicking off his shoes and climbing on with his niece.

Ian and Mickey sit in lawn chairs and watch the kids play for a while, sharing a beer and chatting casually, but eventually, Ian starts getting a devious look on his face. Mickey raises his eyebrows and watches as he stands up, toes off his red high-top Air Force 1s, and runs at the trampoline, leaping on and bouncing the kids, making them fall.

Franny screams in glee, and Liam jumps onto him in a wrestle, and Mickey finishes the beer and watches them play together with a smile on his face.

After a few minutes, Ian’s double-bouncing them one at a time, the waiting kid sitting on the blue spring-cover, and Mickey stares at the way Ian’s sage green T-shirt rides up in the front, exposing the ginger hair at his belly whenever he raises his arms.

He’s maybe in a slightly lustful daze when Ian first calls him to join them, but he catches it the second time.

“Nah, man,” he says, waving his empty beer bottle at them.

Ian points to Franny, who calls in her tiny voice, “Mickey, come _pway_!”

“Come _pway_ , Mick,” Ian teases in a stern tone of voice. 

Mickey brings his hand up to flip him off but, at the last second, figures he shouldn’t. Or should he? They’ve both been pretty open with their language all night, but Franny and Liam are kids, so. 

Whatever.

He shoots Ian daggers, instead, but pulls up his leg to start unlacing his boots.

“Y’know what, Franny?” he hears Ian say, his voice deliberately loud. “I think he _does_ love me.”

\---

Two adults jumping with two kids is slightly dangerous, the kids flying fuckin’ _everywhere_ , but they’re clearly having a blast.

And well, Mickey is, too. Liam hops down at one point and runs in to get the bluetooth speaker, and when he returns, Ian pulls his phone out of his back pocket, still bouncing lightly, and puts on [some music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kY27wmTZwyg). 

Ian picks up Franny and carefully bounces with her a few times, and when he puts her down, she hops over to Mickey and holds out her arms.

Mickey _uhh_ s for a second, but Ian bounces and kicks him lightly on the ass from mid-air. And y’know, whatever.

Mickey picks her up, and she’s light as a feather and wraps her arms and legs around him like a monkey. He jumps a bit with her as Ian plays around with Liam, and well, she’s cute, and her breath smells like macaroni and cheese, and she maybe likes him a little.

“Alright,” he says after a few minutes, arms and legs aching from jumping with the additional thirty-five pound weight. He puts her down, and Ian grabs her up this time, holding her like a baby, her head cradled in the crook of his elbow, and tickles her until she screams.

The four of them play around for ten more minutes--until it’s nearing eight-thirty and the sky is getting dimmer and dimmer--and then they grab their shoes and head back into the house.

Liam goes upstairs to change into his pajamas, and Ian gets Franny some water and a stack of pizza-flavored Pringles. 

Mickey grabs another beer from the fridge, and then everybody migrates into the living room. When Liam comes down, he puts on some educational show about the deadliest animals in the United States, and Mickey stretches out on the couch with Ian to watch.

Franny sits at the coffee table to eat her Pringles, and Liam sits in the recliner with a can of Dr. Thunder, and they watch the better part of the half-hour program together in silence.

At a little before nine, though, when the cow is being announced as the United States’ deadliest animal, Franny starts nodding off, and Ian scoops her up and pulls her into his lap. 

And Ian had sort of been leaning against Mickey, so now the three of them are stretched out more or less together, and it feels so fucking domestic that Mickey almost can’t believe it.

He leans his head back and stares at the ceiling for a second, breathing deeply. He has a boyfriend, and he’s in love with him, and they’re at his family home, babysitting kids who don’t hate Mickey and who maybe kinda like him.

_Holy shit_.

They lie like that for a bit, Ian rubbing Franny’s back as she falls asleep, her face tucked into his neck, and then, at nine-fifteen, Ian nods toward the stairs and stands up to take her to bed.

Mickey gets up to go grab a snack when he’s gone. He makes it halfway to the kitchen before pursing his lips for a moment, turning, and asking Liam, who’s playing a game on his phone, “Hey. Ya need anything?”

Liam waves him a “no,” and Mickey shrugs and goes in search of the Pringles can.

He’s on his second stack of five, leaned back against the sink and munching away, when Ian pads softly down the stairs.

“Asleep?” Mickey asks, holding the can out to Ian, who comes over and takes it from him.

“Like a baby,” Ian answers, tilting the can and tapping out a stack of chips. He looks up for a second, furrowing his brow, and then corrects with, “Like a trampolined-out four-year-old.”

Mickey _hm_ s and slides a Pringle into his mouth.

“You’re kinda good with them, y’know,” Ian comments, coming over to lean against the sink with Mickey. “Franny’s obsessed with you.”

“Fuck off.”

“Literally _everything_ she said all night was about you.”

Mickey rolls his eyes and crunches on another Pringle. “She said like, five whole sentences total.”

“And they were all about you.” Ian bumps him with his hip and, after a brief pause, leans in and pecks him on the cheek.

Mickey smiles a little, in spite of himself, and shrugs. “Whatever, man.”

They polish off the can of Pringles together, and then Ian walks over to the archway and calls to Liam.

“Will you keep an eye on Franny?”

Mickey walks over in time to see Liam make a face from where he’s still sitting, knees to his chest, in the recliner. “Are you two gonna have sex?”

“ _No_. Shut up. We’re just goin’ outside.”

Liam sighs, clearly not believing a word, and shrugs. “Fine.”

“Thanks.” Ian starts to turn back toward Mickey, but then, as if remembering, glances down at his watch. “And go to bed in like, half an hour?”

“I’ll be in bed by eleven.”

That’s in an hour and a half, but Ian just shrugs. “Okay. Yeah.”

\---

Ian grabs two beers from the fridge, and he and Mickey head back out to the trampoline.

It’s completely dark now, and when they look up at the stars from where they sit, legs stretched out in front of them, they can make out the moon and a small smattering of stars, even through the light pollution filtering in from the city.

“Did ya bring me out here to seduce me?” Mickey jokes, twisting off the cap of his beer and taking a long pull.

Ian huffs out a breathy laugh and shrugs. “Maybe. We’ll see.”

They drink in silence for a bit, Ian taking it slow. All around them is the sound of crickets, and in the distance, there’s the occasional siren. Even _that_ is comforting, somehow, as it’s all Mickey really knows. Southside sirens. Southside violence.

“You want kids?” Ian asks after a while. He’s genuine and casual about it; it’s not a segue into a _talk about their future_.

Mickey shrugs and takes a drink. “Nah.”

Ian nods and reaches over to lodge his half-full beer bottle in between the trampoline springs. “I do, I think.” He lowers himself in a reverse sit-up and stretches out on his back. “In like, ten years.”

Mickey sniffs, takes a couple more gulps of beer, and shoves his own bottle into the springs before stretching out alongside Ian. 

“I had really shitty parents growing up,” Ian says, eyes turned upward. “Didn’t give a fuck about us. Were only around when they wanted something.” He blows out a breath, and the trampoline bounces a little as he shifts around, getting comfortable. “ _Is_ , I should say. Monica’s dead, but Frank’s still like that. He’ll fuckin’ die with his hand open.”

Mickey turns his head to watch him for a second, but Ian doesn’t notice. Just stares up at the sky and talks.

“I wanna be a good dad one day,” he says, and he finishes by pursing his lips a bit like he’s nervous--like he’s just confessed a tightly-kept secret.

“You will, man,” Mickey murmurs, turning back to the sky.

They’re quiet for a few minutes. Mickey stares at the moon, at the tiny pinpricks of stars. Follows with his eyes the blinking lights of a plane flying high overhead.

He thinks.

And after a while, he takes a deep breath, and he says, “If it’s any consolation, my parents were shitty, too.”

Ian makes a _hm_ noise, like he knows at least a little about it, and Mickey wonders how much Mandy’s told him of their childhood.

“Mom ran out when I was six. They found her dead in a fuckin’ drug den with a needle in her arm a couple months later.” He hears Ian take in a quick breath and then blow it out slowly. “And Dad was.” Mickey sniffs. Runs his hand over his face. “A piece of shit.” He shrugs. Shifts around and grabs for the pack of cigarettes and lighter in his pocket.

He sighs as he pulls one out and lights up.

Ian blindly holds out two fingers, and Mickey snorts, passes over the one in his mouth, and lights up another.

They smoke in silence for a couple minutes--for a long enough period of time that Mickey’s almost got it down to the filter--before he continues with, “He was. Abusive.” He takes a hard drag and holds in the smoke as long as he can before blowing it out in a slow stream. “To all of us, man.”

Mickey finishes his cigarette and then stubs it out on the heel of his boot.

“Wanted to kill him every fuckin’ day of my life.”

He feels a hand on his belly, and without glancing over, he flicks away his cigarette and places his own over top it.

“So, like. I dunno,” he finishes, gently running his nails over Ian’s skin. “I’m not that optimistic about bein’ a good dad.”

Ian’s hand turns, slides along Mickey’s into a proper hold. “Maybe that’s _why_ you’ll be a good one.”

Mickey shrugs and watches the sky.

“Maybe in ten years,” he says after a few minutes, turning his head to look at Ian.

\---

It’s getting a little chilly, even though it’s late July, so they head back inside after holding hands, sharing a second cigarette, and watching the sky for another fifteen minutes.

They talked about insignificant things to lighten the mood a bit: the proper way to defeat a neighborhood bully, how Mickey _will not_ be joining Ian in quitting smoking cold turkey on January first, and what the stars must look like in person without light pollution to drown them out.

And now, as they’re making their way up the back steps to the kitchen door, there are smiles on their faces.

Liam’s still up, and he eyes the two of them warily as they pile onto the couch and settle in to watch some weird, low-budget horror movie on Syfy.

“We didn’t have sex, punk,” Ian says, giving him a look.

Liam flits his eyes between them one more time and then shrugs.

\---

The movie’s fucking _awful_ \--like, hilariously bad--and eventually, Ian just turns it to Conan and the three of them watch it until they’re yawning.

They go up to bed together. Ian palms at Liam’s head and gives him an affectionate “goodnight” squeeze, and then he and Mickey head into Carl’s bedroom and shut the door.

There are three beds in the room, but rather than opting to sleep apart, Ian and Mickey strip down to their boxers and squish into what Ian says was his old bed. 

It’s barely big enough for one fully grown man to sleep in comfortably, let alone two fully grown men, but Mickey decides, as he feels the warmth of Ian’s body on every inch of his skin, from his neck down to his ankles, that it’s not the worst thing in the world to be close like this.

“Thanks for stayin’ with me,” Ian whispers in the dark, wrapping an arm around Mickey and pulling him back against him. He kisses his neck once, twice, and then trails his mouth down further to lip at his shoulder in a way that’s sweet and intimate rather than a prelude to anything necessarily sexual.

Mickey takes the hand lingering at his chest and brings it up to kiss in return. 

They start to drift off to sleep after that, soothed by the sounds of each other’s slowing breaths.

It’s comfortable, and it’s soft, and Mickey’s lying in the childhood bed of the man he loves, and he thinks, as he closes his eyes, that he wants him to be his family.

And he’s drifting, drifting, idle thoughts turning to dreams, when he hears, whispered against the skin beneath his ear and chased with a gentle press of a kiss, “You’re a good person, Mickey.”

He blows out a breath at that, and Ian just pulls him in tighter.

And Mickey thinks--his last thought before sleep overtakes him--that Ian makes his heart feel whole.

\---  
\---

**_Love is_ ** _joy--so much joy._

“Do you like my body hair?” Ian asks one morning as he stands in front of Mickey’s bathroom sink.

They’d just showered together, finishing the independent washing of their hair and bodies with a pair of very _collaborative_ blowjobs, and now Mickey’s peeing while Ian apparently stares at himself in the mirror.

Mickey flushes the toilet and shrugs. “Yeah. It’s hot,” he says, shouldering between Ian and the sink in order to wash his hands. “Why?”

“‘cause I waxed it pretty regularly for like, five years.”

Mickey lowers his eyebrows and lathers up with bar soap. “For what?”

Ian steps back, giving Mickey more space, and picks up one of the discarded towels on the floor to run through his hair. “It was a work requirement at the club, and then I just kept up with it, I guess. I dunno. Guys like it.”

Mickey turns off the sink and dries his hands on the closest towel he can find. “Why’d ya stop?”

“Made me more marketable on kestrel to start ‘cause dudes with athletic builds and waxed chests are a dime a dozen.” He pulls the towel away from his head and runs his fingers through his hair, instead, flipping the longer strands up top out of his eyes and smoothing back the shorter, grown-out buzzed bits at the sides. “But then I just kinda decided I liked it.”

“Well, do what ya like, man,” Mickey responds, running a comb through his own hair. “I’m into it.”

He watches through the mirror as Ian comes up behind him and smacks a kiss onto his cheek.

“What’s this about?” Mickey asks as the two of them move into the bedroom to get dressed. They share a stick of Mickey’s deodorant--which probably would’ve been weird a month ago but just seems really fuckin’ normal now--and then go about pulling on their clothes.

“I think I’m gettin’ hairier.”

Ian adjusts the maroon boxer briefs he’s just slid on until all his belly fuzz is visible and motions up and down his torso. 

Mickey can’t tell a difference, as he’s only known him for eight months, but Ian sure as fuck doesn’t need to be concerned about anything.

“Pretty sure that’s normal.” Mickey looks down at his own body as he tugs up his blue pinstripe shorts. “I’m definitely hairier than I was when I was in my early twenties.”

Which isn’t to say he’s actually _hairy_ by any stretch of the imagination, but whatever. Milkovich men have never had particularly hairy chests.

Ian shrugs and tugs his underwear back up to a reasonable position. “As long as you’re into it.”

Mickey makes a face and moves over to him, taking him by the waist. Leaning down, he kisses several times at his chest and then once at his chin before finishing with a soft, slow suck of a kiss to his mouth. “As long as _you’re_ into it. I don’t give a fuck how much or how little body hair ya got, man.”

Ian smiles at him and gets his own hands on Mickey’s hips. He gives him a squeeze. 

“Anyway,” Mickey continues, tickling his fingers up Ian’s sides. “Pretty sure Mrs. Callaghan likes your chest hair, too.”

“ _Shut up_.”

“You can’t disappoint her. Be sure to wear a V-neck today.”

Ian shoves him away and flips him off. “I hate you.”

Mickey smirks as he heads over to his dresser to find a T-shirt.

The last time they’d had breakfast with Mrs. Callaghan, she’d mentioned something about Ian having “fur like a red fox” when they were randomly explaining to her the different physical types of gay men, prompted by Ian’s accidental, casual use of the word “twink” in a preceding conversation. Mickey’d teased him about it relentlessly ever since.

Mickey grabs a black shirt with dark, heather-gray horizontal stripes and pulls it over his head.

“Do you _also_ hate that you did actually bring a V-neck to wear today?”

Ian can’t see him, as he’s pulling a navy V-neck over his head, but he reaches out and blindly flips him off again while grumbling, “You’re a dick.”

Mickey chuckles breathily as he steps into a pair of black jeans.

\---

Mickey had sort of roped Ian into helping him steam Mrs. C’s carpets and furniture that Saturday because well, he’d wanted the help, and he does actually like hanging out with the guy in pretty much any context.

Ian was seemingly happy to do it, though, and he’d even rented the steamer from the supermarket and brought it over Friday before their date.

After they’re ready and have had their coffee, they head down and get to work.

Mrs. C., being in her seventies and a product of the sixties, has carpeting and rugs and plushy-ass furniture _everywhere_ , and it takes Ian and Mickey the better part of the morning and into the early afternoon to get to everything.

They switch off on the duties--one doing the actual steaming and the other doing the dreaded and stupidly frequent job of dumping and refilling the water tank--and Mrs. Callaghan plays oldies radio throughout and cooks a pasta dish with garlic bread.

They’re sweaty when they’re done, and they’ve got water spots on their clothes and slippery, squeaky shoes from stepping on the wet carpet.

“Maybe you should take off your shirt,” Mickey whispers to Ian, who’s swiping at his damp forehead with his arm. 

Ian kicks his shin hard enough that Mickey makes an _ow!_ noise.

\---

The three of them have a late lunch together--Ian and Mickey’s first meal of the day--and Mrs. Callaghan is nice as hell, letting them basically eat her out of house and home and even wanting to make them ice cream sundaes for dessert.

They refuse, but she insists, and Ian at least offers to help her make them.

Mickey drinks a beer leaned back against the kitchen counter and watches his boyfriend and landlady take sundae ingredients out of the fridge and cabinets and lay them out.

“Thank you, boys, for helping me,” Mrs. C. says, digging through her utensil drawer for an ice cream scoop. “It’s a damned travesty getting old.”

Ian wraps an arm around her shoulders and gives her a squeeze. “Anytime,” he replies, looking back at Mickey and giving him a sweet smile.

Somehow, Mickey does end up helping, and a few minutes later, he finds himself microwaving a bowl of chocolate sauce while Mrs. C. plays her music again at a volume that he’s pretty sure the tenants upstairs can hear.

And the main problem with this is that Ian’s a fuckin’ unparalleled dork, and by the time Mickey’s spooning out unhealthy amounts of chocolate sauce onto the vanilla ice cream Mrs. Callaghan’s scooped into three glass bowls, the entire kitchen’s turned into his worst nightmare of a dance party.

He doesn’t know _why_ Ian knows the lyrics to [“Come and Get Your Love,”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bc0KhhjJP98) but he does, apparently. He isn’t singing it loud and obnoxiously like he can get when he and Mickey are alone, but he mumbles the lyrics as he fucking _dances_ with Mrs. C.

It’s nothing elaborate, and really, it looks strangely normal of them. Ian’s swaying as he holds Mrs. C by the hand, gently twirling her and then smiling when he takes her by both hands and waltzes her around the kitchen.

“Lovebug, get in here,” she calls out to Mickey as they pass by him, but he just rolls his eyes and licks chocolate sauce off the spoon he’s been using.

“Yeah,” Ian chimes in, smirking. “Come on, Lovebug.”

Mickey waits until Mrs. C’s back is turned before he flips him off, and Ian tosses his head back and laughs.

They somehow dance to the entirety of the song, and Mrs. Callaghan thanks Ian for being a good dance partner--”unlike that boyfriend of yours”--as they get back to putting together the sundaes.

“Don’t mind him, Mrs. Callaghan,” Ian says, popping open a jar of maraschino cherries. “Lovebug dances with me _all the time_. He’s a real…” He fumbles for a second, as if searching his brain for the name he knows only vaguely. “Gene Kelly.”

Mickey mouths _fuck you_ and stretches his leg out behind Mrs. C. to tap his foot against Ian’s ass.

For all her sweet optimism, Mrs. Callaghan’s anything but naive. She chuckles and turns to Ian. “You might regret that, Honeypie.”

Mickey snorts so hard it makes his throat hurt. “Yeah, _Honeypie_ ,” he says, eyeing Ian, who shoots daggers his way.

He kisses Mickey, though, when the two of them are picking up their finished sundae bowls off the counter. It’s just a chaste peck on the lips, but Mickey blushes when he carries his bowl to the table and notices Mrs. C smiling at them.

\---

Mickey calls Ian “Honeypie” all day, and Ian doesn’t actually threaten to kill him until they’re standing in Mickey’s kitchen that night. They’ve just gotten back from returning the steamer to the supermarket, where they picked up a rotisserie chicken and a container of assorted cut melon because they’re still hungry.

“I _honestly_ think I might murder you in your sleep if you call me ‘Honeypie’ again,” Ian says, snatching up a piece of watermelon from the container with his bare fingers.

“You sleepin’ here tonight, Honeypie?”

“Murder, Mickey.”

Mickey grins at him. “It sounds kinda dirty.”

“It sounds like a fuckin’ vagina.”

Mickey sticks out his tongue and bites down on it, feeling just so _happy_. 

“That’s hilarious,” he says after several seconds, scooping up a chunk of cantaloupe and shoving the whole thing in his mouth.

Ian pokes him and goes to the sink to wash his hands.

They clean up together, Mickey taking on the task of pulling apart the rest of the rotisserie chicken and putting it in Tupperware and Ian refrigerating the melon container and wiping down the counter.

“I _was_ gonna stay over again if it’s okay,” Ian says once he’s done. 

Mickey bumps the fridge door closed with his knee and walks up to him, taking him by the hips. “What for?” he teases, rolling his lips into his mouth.

Ian stares at him for several seconds, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s deciding whether to answer or smile, and then says, bending his head to whisper into Mickey’s face, “Make-love-boyfriend.”

“I fuckin’ hate you.” Mickey shoves him, but Ian grabs him around the torso and squeezes him so he can’t get away. 

He’s laughing hysterically, and it makes Mickey laugh, too-- _goddammit, Gallagher_ \--and eventually, he just stops trying to get away, wraps his arms around him, and hugs back.

“I’ve been tryin’ to work that into our conversation for like an hour so you’d stop with the ‘Honeypie’ shit,” Ian says, voice light and happy.

“Bitch.”

“ _Mmhm_.” Ian leans down and kisses him, and it’s soft and smiley, and Mickey leans into it, breathes into it.

“It’s not a lie, though,” Ian continues, pressing his lips to Mickey’s between each cluster of words. 

Mickey pulls back and raises his eyebrows. “Hm?”

“I do wanna make love to my boyfriend.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

Ian stares at him for a moment and shrugs. “‘cause I’m happy.”

Mickey doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it sure as hell wasn’t that. It hits him _hard_ , those words. Kicks his heart. Takes his breath.

He gets his arms back around Ian and kisses him, kisses him, with every bit of love and happiness he has.

\---

They do make love that night.

Ian spoons up behind him and tangles their legs together, and they fuck slowly and quietly in the dark.

Mickey slides his fingers through Ian’s backwards, the back of his hand against Ian’s palm, and he grips him and squeezes and periodically brings the hand up to his mouth to kiss as Ian thrusts into him at a measured pace and presses hot kisses to his neck and shoulders.

And Mickey knows that people have sex for all sorts of reasons--knows _he and Ian_ have sex for all sorts of reasons--but happy sex might be Mickey’s favorite.

Ian pulls out halfway through and flips Mickey over, murmuring that he wants to look at him, and when he slides back inside, they’re both grinning at each other.

Fuckin’ _happy_.

“You feel so good,” Ian whispers, touching his smile to Mickey’s cheek and then dragging down to bury his face in his neck.

He picks up the pace of his thrusts, and Mickey squeezes his knees around his waist and wraps his arms around his back, clinging to him like he never wants to let him go.

“You too,” he grunts out.

Because he does. He does, he does, he fucking does, and it’s physically, and it’s emotionally, and it’s every way someone can feel good to another person.

And Mickey’s _happy_ \--happier than he’s been in his entire life--and when he closes his eyes and pants and moans, his orgasm creeping up on him in a slow, tingling, electric burn, all he sees is light.

“ _Fuck_ , I’m gonna come in you,” Ian murmurs, and Mickey just clings to him and clings to him and lets him feel happy and loved and safe. 

And when he comes, Mickey rubs at his back and whispers love words in his ear, and with no touch other than the fuzzy plane of Ian’s belly rubbing against him, he comes, too, shaking through it, squeezing Ian with his knees and his arms and loving him with his whole heart.

\---

“We’re really good at sex, Mickey,” Ian declares several minutes later, once he’s pulled out and disposed of the condom.

They’re lying on their backs, panting up at the ceiling, and Mickey thinks the entire apartment building could burn down around him and he’d just lie there alongside Ian, breathing.

“You’re definitely the best guy _I’ve_ ever fucked,” he mumbles, getting a tired hand up to rub over his sweaty face.

Ian snorts and tosses his arm over, gently smacking it against Mickey’s belly.

“That’s so hot to me,” he says after a minute, twisting onto his side so he can look at him.

Mickey raises his eyebrows in question.

“That I’m the only guy you’ve ever had sex with.”

“You’re fuckin’ sappy, man.”

“Yeah.” Ian slides closer and wraps his arm around Mickey’s waist. “Maybe I am.”

Mickey turns, too, because _fuck it_ , and cards his fingers through Ian’s sweaty hair. He kisses his forehead. Kisses his freckly eyelids. His eyebrows.

He smiles, then, sliding his hand from Ian’s hair to his brows, and strokes across each one with his thumb. “Remember when you got paint in your hair?”

Ian closes his eyes, presses his lips together in a straight line, and nods. “Yep.”

“And you sent me that ugly-ass picture.”

“Shut up.”

Mickey breathes out a laugh and presses it to Ian’s forehead, feeling the warm puffs of his breath bounce back against his skin. He kisses him there again, before pulling back to look at him.

“What’d you think about me?” Ian asks, shifting around so that he can prop his head up on his arm.

Mickey bites his lip and shrugs, sliding his gaze across Ian’s face until it lands somewhere around the area of his ear. “I dunno, man.”

“Tell me.” Ian reaches a hand out and pokes him just above the right nipple. “I liked you pretty early. What about you?”

Mickey sighs, feeling his cheeks heat, and squirms a little before finally dragging his eyes back to Ian’s. “I was kinda. Um.” He pauses. Runs his hand across his face and then sliding his index finger back-and-forth over his mouth. “I was really into you and shit. Just after we started instant messaging.” He laughs--just an awkward, breathy puff--and looks away. “It’s fuckin’ embarrassing.”

Ian grins, and his whole face cracks with it. “Did you see where I had you starred as ‘Important?’” he asks, referring to the night he’d shown Mickey his kestrel contact list.

Mickey nods.

“I did that like, a couple weeks in, so.” Ian shrugs. “You really don’t need to be embarrassed.”

He leans in, then, and kisses Mickey right above the eyebrow. “I’m so in love with you.”

Mickey blows out a breath. Brings his head up so he can get at Ian’s mouth. Kisses him.

“Me too,” he whispers against his lips, breathing him in--his warm, sweet, melon-y breath.

Ian smiles against his mouth and twists around onto his back, pulling Mickey down over him. “You’re so in love with you, too?” he teases, his kisses like punctuation.

“Mmhm.”

“Good.” Ian gets his hands up in his hair and cards through the back of it. “I love confidence in a man.”

Mickey watches his face for a long stretch, roaming his eyes over every freckle, every hair, before whispering, “I love _you_.”

Ian pulls him down and kisses him in a way that makes Mickey curl his toes. That makes him see stars when he squeezes his eyes shut.

“Are you happy?” Ian whispers when they pause to catch their breaths. He keeps carding his fingers through Mickey’s hair, and Mickey knows it’s gonna be sticking up later on when he looks in the mirror.

And well, out of all the questions Ian could ask him, this one’s the easiest to answer.

“Yeah,” Mickey says, dipping his face again to touch their noses together. “I’m really fuckin’ happy, man.”

He thinks, probably, he’s the happiest motherfucker in the Southside.

\---  
\---

_**Love is** everything and everything and everything._

It’s the second day in August when Mickey realizes he hasn’t had a text conversation with Ian in weeks.

It’s Sunday evening, and he’s spent the day grocery shopping and napping and playing video games--actually _enjoying_ his lazy Sunday for once. Ian had slept over again, and they’d stayed up way too late binge-watching the entire second season of _The Umbrella Academy_ , and then he’d woken up _way too early_ when Ian had gotten up for work.

So he’d napped, and he’d worn just his boxers for most of the day, and it felt really fucking good to do that for a reason and not because he simply had nothing else to do.

It’s nearly seven now, and he’s making his way through his and Ian’s chicken fajita leftovers, and he’s scrolling through their text thread, seeing only six or seven texts sent each day since the fifteenth of July.

And well, he knows it’s because they’ve been seeing each other all the fuckin’ time and opting for phone and FaceTime calls, instead, but Mickey has to admit to himself, as he bites into the huge, messy fajita he’s thrown together, that he sort of misses it.

Misses the thrill it always gave him to hear the text tone. To watch those dots dance as Ian typed. To be able to reread their conversations in bed before he fell asleep.

He smiles as he reads their last stupid message exchange from this morning.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Ian (7:34 AM):** Thanks for not falling asleep on my dick. 😎 

**Mickey (7:36 AM):** Don’t mention it. Now fuck off so I can go back to bed 🖕

**Ian (7:36 AM):** I have the world’s nicest boyfriend.

**Ian (7:37 AM):** Sleep tight. ❤️️

\-------------------------------------------------------

And well, with a shrug, he texts him.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Mickey (6:54 PM):** Honeypie

**Ian (6:55 PM):** 🔫🔫🔫 

**Ian (6:55 PM):** Lovebug.

**Mickey (6:55 PM):** 🖕

**Ian (6:56 PM):** 😏 I was actually about to call you regarding some devious plans I may or may not have for this week.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey gives up on disastrous, one-handed fajita-eating and lets the tortilla flop open on his plate, setting in to eat the insides with a fork.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Mickey (6:57 PM):** What’s up

**Ian (6:58 PM):** The first part of my devious plan isn’t really a plan at all.

**Ian (6:58 PM):** It’s a humble request.

**Mickey (6:58 PM):** ?

**Ian (6:59 PM):** I am respectfully requesting to fuck you literally all night on Thursday after my appointment and to never see that box of condoms in our nightstand ever again.

**Ian (6:59 PM):** *your

**Ian (7:00 PM):** I am also requesting that you not be pissed at me on Friday because you’re gonna get exactly zero hours of sleep.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey drops his fork on his plate. To the clang, Jovi hops up on the table and starts sniffing around, thinking Mickey’s calling him for dinner.

“Fuck,” Mickey whispers, reaching a hand out to rub absently at his cat’s ears. He blows out a breath as he feels his cheeks heat.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Mickey (7:01 PM):** Can’t promise I won’t be pissed at you Friday but I guess I can manage to put up with your dick Thursday night

\-------------------------------------------------------

he texts, even as he feels like pulling the neck of his shirt up over his face to hide his smile.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Ian (7:02 PM):** Hm. 😏

**Ian (7:02 PM):** Well, my dick wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.

**Mickey (7:03 PM):** I’m willing to sacrifice sleep for the greater good

**Ian (7:03 PM):** How kind of you.

**Mickey (7:04 PM):** I think so

**Mickey (7:04 PM):** Pretty sure you’re only gonna last like a second each time anyway so I’m optimistic about my chances for naps

**Ian (7:05 PM):** Ouch.

**Mickey (7:05 PM):** Truth hurts, man

**Ian (7:05 PM):** 🖕

**Ian (7:06 PM):** And here I was feeling proud of our vast improvements in that area.

**Mickey (7:07 PM):** It’s all cool. Just means we’re gonna have to practice the new thing too

**Ian (7:07 PM):** Practice does make perfect. 😎

**Mickey (7:07 PM):** That’s what I always say

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey sets down his phone and presses his palms over his eyes.

_Fuck_.

He’s gonna get to _feel_ Ian. Bare. All the messy parts of sex, of Ian’s body during sex, just _there_ , and real, and completely unhindered.

Mickey purses his lips and blows out a slow, steady breath. 

“Jovi,” he says, picking up his bottle of Old Style from where it rests, sweating, by his plate. “You’re gettin’ locked outta the bedroom on Thursday, man.”

The cat just stares at him, and Mickey raises his eyebrows at him as he takes a long drink of beer.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Ian (7:08 PM):** And I, for one, love when you say it.

**Mickey (7:09 PM):** Ok, ok

**Ian (7:09 PM):** 😉

**Mickey (7:09 PM):** What’s the rest of your plan

**Ian (7:09 PM):** The details are a surprise.

**Ian (7:10 PM):** But I do want to tell you to not have plans for this weekend and also wanted to ask permission to dip into the kestrel funds.

**Mickey (7:10 PM):** Don’t need permission. The money’s yours, man

**Ian (7:10 PM):** I said we were gonna use it for something for us, and that’s my plan.

**Ian (7:11 PM):** But I need you to agree to it because I’ve decided to die on the hill of it being your money.

**Mickey (7:11 PM):** 🙄 Whatever

**Ian (7:11 PM):** You’re gonna like it. I promise.

**Mickey (7:12 PM):** Can I at least get a hint

**Ian (7:12 PM):** Be free Saturday and Sunday. Pack a bag.

**Mickey (7:13 PM):** I’m not gonna get to sleep for days am I

**Ian (7:13 PM):** I promise to keep my dick to myself Friday night so you can rest up. 

**Mickey (7:14 PM):** How generous of you

**Ian (7:14 PM):** It’s the least I can do.

\-------------------------------------------------------

It occurs to Mickey, as he’s smiling down at his phone screen, rereading the last couple of messages, that it’s sort of a given, now, that Ian’s sleeping over Friday. And well, it looks like they’ll be together at least every night from Thursday to Sunday. Probably Monday, too, as it’s Mickey’s birthday.

The thought of waking up with him several days in a row sends a wave of calm over him. The thoughts of having his warm body next to him in bed each night, of showering with him sometimes, of listening to him sing to the radio, of cooking with him and watching shit with him...all just blending together into something _good_ and something _right_ and something Mickey doesn’t want to ever lose.

These thoughts make him wanna ask him something, really. _Suggest_ something.

Ian’s probably bound to a lease, and it’s probably too soon, and there are probably a lot of other things to think about.

But it makes Mickey’s stomach twist to think of it--to imagine what life would be like if Ian never had to go home again. 

If he could just _have him_. Stay up way too fuckin’ late hanging out with him and wake up way too fuckin’ early when he leaves for work.

Share his life with him--the life he secretly always wanted but never hoped to have.

He wants everything with Ian. All the good parts, all the bad, and all the in-between.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Mickey (7:15 PM):** You still workin on your list

**Ian (7:15 PM):** Yep. Hoping to cross a few things off this weekend. Why?

**Mickey (7:15 PM):** I dunno. You’re a dork

**Ian (7:16 PM):** 😑🖕

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey smiles because he fuckin’ _likes_ him, and he likes his stupid-ass emojis and his stupid-ass list and the way he presses his mouth into a straight line like he _knows_ he’s doing right now.

He likes him, and well, he maybe wants to be a little soft with him.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Mickey (7:17 PM):** Thanks

\-------------------------------------------------------

he says, biting his lip.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Ian (7:17 PM):** For what?

**Mickey (7:18 PM):** For like planning shit for my birthday or whatever

**Ian (7:18 PM):** It’s in the boyfriend job description. 

**Ian (7:19 PM):** Also, I love you, so I wanted to do it.

**Mickey (7:19 PM):** Don’t get all sappy. I was just sayin thank you

**Ian (7:19 PM):** Stop rejecting my love. 💔

**Mickey (7:19 PM):** I’m rejecting your sap

**Ian (7:20 PM):** In all fairness, you can get kinda sappy yourself, Milkovich.

**Mickey (7:21 PM):** Name me one time I’ve ever been sappy

**Ian (7:21 PM):** You are sweet as fuck after sex, man.

**Mickey (7:21 PM):** 🖕 Eat me

**Ian (7:21 PM):** When and where?

\-------------------------------------------------------

_Goddammit_ , Gallagher. Mickey laughs.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Mickey (7:22 PM):** Guess that shit don’t work anymore

**Ian (7:22 PM):** Lucky us. 

**Mickey (7:22 PM):** Lucky us

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey actually is pretty hungry, so he gets up from the table, reheats the fajita, and this time, makes a proper attempt at folding it up.

He and Ian continue to talk as he eats, the conversation wandering to random shit, followed by petty accusations about whose fault it was they didn’t go to sleep until three a.m., followed by Ian asking out of the blue and in a way that makes Mickey laugh,

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Ian (7:39 PM):** Why the fuck are we texting?

\-------------------------------------------------------

_Because I miss texting you_ is what Mickey wants to say. _Because I like to read your messages before bed._

_Because I love you, and I think you’re an idiot, and it’s fun to type shit to you._

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Mickey (7:41 PM):** Coulda called me anytime, man

**Ian (7:41 PM):** Maybe I don’t wanna call you.

**Ian (7:41 PM):** Maybe I wanna be able to go back and reread all the sweet shit you say.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey smiles because well, they’ve always been on the same page, haven’t they?

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Mickey (7:42 PM):** I haven’t said a single sweet thing

**Ian (7:42 PM):** Not YET. 

**Mickey (7:43 PM):** You expecting something

**Ian (7:43 PM):** I’m just waiting until we say goodbye. 

**Mickey (7:44 PM):** Oh yeah?

**Ian (7:44 PM):** 😎

**Ian (7:44 PM):** And I do actually need to go in a minute. I need to take a shower and make a bowl of delicious Frosted Flakes.

**Mickey (7:45 PM):** You’re the worst

**Ian (7:45 PM):** You misspelled “best.”

**Mickey (7:45 PM):** 🖕

**Ian (7:46 PM):** Call me before bed?

**Mickey (7:46 PM):** Ok

**Ian (7:46 PM):** ✌️

**Mickey (7:47 PM):** Bye

**Ian (7:47 PM):** Bye. 

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey smiles because he knows Ian’s fishing.

And he considers extending it even more, but Ian’s onto him before he gets a chance.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Ian (7:47 PM):** Are you deliberately not saying something sweet?

**Mickey (7:48 PM):** Yeah

**Ian (7:48 PM):** 🔫

**Mickey (7:49 PM):** Dork

\-------------------------------------------------------

He waits for long enough that he’s fairly sure Ian’s in the shower, and then, flushing and biting back a smile, types

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Mickey (7:57 PM):** Guess I love you

\-------------------------------------------------------

And nearly ten minutes later, he gets a response.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Ian (8:06 PM):** Guess I love you, too. 

**Ian (8:06 PM):** Sweet motherfucker. ❤️️

\-------------------------------------------------------

There’s a lot to be said for being in love, really.

Mickey used to think it was a scam. A fuckin’ shitshow. A thing you claimed you were in because you _had to_ , because it was _normal_ , because if you didn’t, you weren’t _safe_.

He used to think it would never be real for him, _could_ never be real for him, and that he’d live his entire life hiding and scared, would probably shack up with some Southside girl who’d con him into a kid or two. Would only ever have _hard, dirty fucks in secret_ with men in the dark and would never have softness. Gentleness.

Would never have someone who’d care about his body and his needs, would want to know all his secrets, would welcome him into his _family_ and would maybe, just maybe, want real things with him, one day. 

Things beyond sex and beyond a simple good time. Commitment. A life. A forever sort of happiness.

He never could’ve imagined having twenty-seventh birthday plans, wanting to _live with_ someone, typing, “Guess I love you” so the other person can read it again later, knowing he’s going to be scrolling through that entire conversation, himself, that night, lingering over the “Also, I love you, so I wanted to do it.”

Mickey showers that night and gets ready for bed, pulling on plaid boxers and one of Ian’s T-shirts he’d left there--the over-washed, nearly threadbare gray one with the small hole in the neck seam.

And he stares at himself in the mirror, looks himself up and down--at the floppiness of his wet hair, at his face, which has been unmarred by bruises and cuts for years, at the fading purplish hickey just below his collarbone that makes him smile when he thinks of Ian sucking on him there last week.

He runs his eyes over his arms, which are maybe a little more toned recently from working out with Ian, down his torso and his thighs and his legs with hard muscles from jogging.

And after he gives himself this once over, and after he leans in closer and stares into his eyes, he thinks that really, for the first time since he was a kid, he doesn’t hate himself. He doesn’t hate himself at all.

He climbs in bed at half past ten because even though he’d been lazy all day, he’s still tired from lack of sleep.

Jovi hops up onto the bed and curls up on the pillow above his head, his warm, furry little body purring like a soothing motor, like the wings of a hummingbird.

And Mickey switches off the light, and he calls Ian, and he settles in to tease him about his cereal and listen to him talk about his day and later, when he’s about to fall asleep, to tell him he loves him because he does, and he can, and it’s fine and good and right to say it.

There’s a lot to be said for being in love, really. 

Mickey Milkovich has it all on a list in his mind--all good things, all happy things, everything and everything and everything.

Being in love is like a lungful of air after being held underwater. A lamp switched on after being trapped in the dark.

A kiss after twenty-six years of thinking it’ll never happen. Sex with someone who wants you and cares for you and makes sure you’re happy and satisfied after a life of believing you’ll never have that.

There’s a lot to be said for being in love, really. 

What Mickey knows, more than anything, as he ends the call with Ian, snuggles down into his blankets, and closes his eyes to sleep, is that love feels a lot like freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fun facts for Chapter 16:  
> -The first thing I want to say is not necessarily a fun fact but a hope of mine. Romantically or platonically, I hope you always surround yourself with people who love you and respect you and who give you optimism and joy and confidence in yourself. With that said, never seek validation from others as your sole source of esteem and happiness. Mickey in this fic has been loved by Ian and that’s changed him, but the reason it’s changed him is _not_ because Mickey’s been _saved by the power of Ian’s love_ but because being around someone who’s given him kindness and respect has allowed Mickey to understand that he deserves happiness and that he _can_ have it and _should_ have it. Surround yourself with people like LRPD Ian and Mrs. Callaghan and lil Jovi. People who are patient and loving and who will meet you where you are, wherever you are. You deserve it. ❤️️
> 
> -The second thing I want to say is a huge thank you to everyone who has made incredible fanart since the last update:  
> captainbaekho ([1](https://twitter.com/captainbaekho/status/1274993731683463169?s=20), [2](https://twitter.com/captainbaekho/status/1276391452994666497?s=20))  
> [AleuMinz](https://twitter.com/AleuMinz/status/1275889594584752128?s=20)  
> ArtofOBSESSION ([1](https://twitter.com/ArtofOBSESSION/status/1274160355623628802?s=20), [2](https://twitter.com/ArtofOBSESSION/status/1275961232034369536?s=20)) -- **NSFW!**  
> [filorux](https://filorux.tumblr.com/post/621337095635599360/the-shower-scene-from-the-awesome-fic-like-real) \-- **NSFW!**  
> [Please also check my Twitter feed](http://twitter.com/grayolasays) for edits I’ve retweeted. Thank you to everyone who cares enough to put time and energy into creating something for my fic. You are amazing, and I can’t thank you enough.
> 
> And finally, here are some actual facts:
> 
> -Ian’s passcode--050996--is his birthdate. Also, oops, I may have forgotten to even so much as mention Ian turning 24 in this fic. However! That’s a thing that happened. Also, I’m still planning to go back when I’m done and de-age Mickey by one year because I certainly did goof with his age.
> 
> -Ian and Mickey are learning to cook together. Ian’s downloaded a recipe app, and they try to cook something a couple times a week. On other nights, the person sleeping over brings takeout. They always go out to dinner on date night.
> 
> -Mickey's favorite porn video is a call-back to the very first chapter. Hopefully you picked up on it! But if not, I forgive you, as there's literally been over 150k words since.
> 
> -None of the porn videos exist. They are 100% made up, so any title likenesses are completely coincidental.
> 
> -Jovi thinks his dad is embarrassing.
> 
> I love you all so much. Thank you for the continued support. It’s almost finished! Two more chapters to go, with the last being sort of epilogue-y. 
> 
> I’m gonna be sad when it’s over, but I _will_ be writing an Ian POV version of this entire fic after I take a break. A goal of mine while writing it will be to recycle conversations only when necessary and instead, bring in some additional conversations, situations, and moments only alluded to in LRPD, hopefully making the new fic stand on its own. I’ll probably start it at the end of July or early August.
> 
> See you next time. Sometime next week, probably. I’ll let ya know. Take care. ❤️️
> 
> Gray
> 
> [my tumblr](http://gallavichy.tumblr.com) // [my twitter](http://twitter.com/grayolasays)


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey turns twenty-seven. Ian loves his boyfriend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which “wet hot American summer” would be an appropriate subtitle.
> 
> So, here we go. This is the last chapter that takes place, time-wise, immediately following the one previous. In some sense, this is the last normal chapter, period. I really hope you enjoy it. This is one of those where there are parts that I definitely could’ve cut, but in the end, I just didn’t want to. There’s a lot of just Ian and Mickey hanging out. But I had fun with it, so maybe you will, as well. As always, thanks for reading!
> 
> Warnings in this chapter for pretty graphic unprotected sex, so if you're not into that, please skim/skip once they start getting it on.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (7:14 PM):** Pack your trunks! You’re gonna get wet.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey bursts out laughing when he reads Ian’s text.

The dorky motherfucker. 

It’s Wednesday, and he’s stretched out on the chaise lounge on his landlady’s porch, smoking just his fifth cigarette of the day and soaking up the warmth of the summer evening.

He’d had dinner with Mrs. Callaghan, and now she’s watching _Wheel of Fortune_ inside while the cookies she insisted on sending back with him are baking in the oven, and Mickey’d slipped out to smoke and text his boyfriend.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (7:15 PM):** Do you mean literally or are you tryin to make a joke about your cum

\-------------------------------------------------------

They’ve been joking around all week about their Thursday night plans following Ian’s HIV screening, and Mickey figures this is just another of Ian’s goofy ways to get him to talk about it.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (7:15 PM):** Dirty boy. I like it. 😈

 **Ian (7:16 PM):** But no, I mean literally. For your birthday weekend.

 **Ian (7:16 PM):** Also, if I were gonna make that joke, I’d definitely be referring to your dick, man.

 **Mickey (7:17 PM):** 🖕  
\-------------------------------------------------------

Having hit the filter, Mickey stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray Mrs. Callaghan had bought for him.

He contemplates for a moment. Considers lying. But, well, there’s no reason to, even if it is embarrassing.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (7:18 PM):** Don’t got any trunks. I can’t swim

 **Ian (7:18 PM):** Seriously?

 **Mickey (7:18 PM):** Never learned how

\-------------------------------------------------------

There’s a brief pause, and Mickey holds his breath, really not wanting pity. He had a fucked up childhood, sure, and he didn’t exactly spend his summers at the pool, his dad teaching him how to swim. He couldn’t take swimming lessons--no money or opportunity. He didn’t have friends to show him, and Colin and Iggy never learned, either.

But whatever. He doesn’t care about that shit. When’s he ever needed to know how to swim in the Southside of Chicago, anyway?

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (7:20 PM):** That’s ok. I’ll bring you a pair of mine.

\-------------------------------------------------------

He doesn’t care about that shit, but he probably would’ve been mortified if Ian’d teased him about it.

He doesn’t, though. He doesn’t because he’s so goddamned _considerate_ , still, even now that they know each other well, see each other most days, are planning to start fucking without protection, even.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (7:21 PM):** None of that short shit

 **Ian (7:22 PM):** Realistically, I’m gonna have to bring you the short ones because my boardshorts will go to your ankles. 😎

 **Ian (7:22 PM):** And anyway, your thighs are one of your best features. I’d hate to deprive the world of their beauty.

 **Mickey (7:23 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (7:23 PM):** I’ll remember that next time you beg me to suck on them, Mickey.

 **Mickey (7:24 PM):** When have I ever begged

 **Ian (7:24 PM):** 😏

 **Mickey (7:24 PM):** Shut up

 **Ian (7:25 PM):** Make me.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Fuck, he likes him.

 _Still_.

Ian’s drooled on his pillowcase and had meds-related diarrhea in his bathroom and sometimes kisses him with awful morning breath like he can’t help but do it, and _Mickey just wants to be with him all the time_.

He’s probably smiling at his phone like a fuckin’ idiot when Mrs. Callaghan pokes her head out the door and tells him the cookies are ready.

And when he follows her back inside to pluck one hot off the pan with his bare fingers, he notices that she watches him with her own smile.

“Ian makes you happy,” she comments, grabbing for the half-full glass of chardonnay she has sitting on the counter.

Mickey winces a bit at the hot cookie as he pulls it apart with his fingers. He shrugs, blowing on a piece before cramming it in his mouth. “Yeah,” he says, chewing.

“Hold on to that one.”

Mickey leans, hip to the counter, and watches her sip elegantly at her wine. He nods and bites into another bit of cookie.

“I loved my David for forty-two years, but we never had that _spark_. We were friends, and he was decent in bed--”

Mickey makes a disgusted face.

“--but I think we went our whole marriage without ever feeling like we _needed_ each other in order to truly enjoy our lives.”

There’s a moment of silence as Mickey munches the rest of the cookie and wanders his eyes around the kitchen, feeling awkward. Exposed.

“Do you have that with Ian?”

He considers shrugging off her question, and he considers giving her a simple _yes_ or telling her that she’s already had too much wine.

But instead, he goes for honesty, and he goes for looking his landlady in the eye, knowing he loves her like a mom, maybe, even though she’s old enough to be his grandmother.

And he says quietly, wiping his chocolate-chip-stained fingers on his jeans, “He’s changed my fuckin’ life.”

Mrs. C. puts down her wine glass, then, and steps in to wrap her arms around Mickey’s middle. “You two have a long and beautiful future ahead of you.” She gives him a crushingly affectionate squeeze and finishes with, “I love you, my boy. I’m so proud of you.”

He hugs her back, mindful of his dirty fingers and her white blouse, and murmurs something against her shoulder, heart squeezing in a way he’s never before experienced.

“Love you, too.”

And if his eyes tear up, it’s only a little, and it’s blinked away by the time he pulls back from the hug.

\---  
\---

It isn’t at all a surprise; they pretty much knew Ian was fine from the jump. But it is relieving and _exciting_ when Mickey receives Ian’s text on Thursday during his lunch break.

It’s a picture of a photocopied test results paper, and it’s all good things, and Mickey hums as he peruses it, mouth full of banh mi.

He considers texting, _You mean we coulda been fuckin raw for the past month_ , but well, he knows why Ian did this--why he waited the additional six weeks even when his first test was negative.

He did it because he loves him, really, and it makes Mickey’s breath stutter, his belly twist, when he thinks of it.

It makes him _smile_ when he thinks of it.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (12:04 PM):** Good. Magnums are fuckin expensive man

 **Ian (12:04 PM):** Did you just call my dick expensive?

 **Mickey (12:05 PM):** Pricey but it gets the job done

 **Ian (12:05 PM):** Glad to hear it. 😏

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey huffs a laugh and takes another bite of his food.

And he almost chokes when Ian sends his next message.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (12:06 PM):** I’m gonna come inside you tonight.

 **Ian (12:06 PM):** For real this time.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey likes to tease him about how he always announces he’s gonna come in him as he nears orgasm. It’s one of his quirks, Mickey thinks. Probably something that gets him hot to say, knowing his taste in porn. Helps him tip over the edge.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (12:07 PM):** Think you’ll make it all the way in?

 **Ian (12:07 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (12:08 PM):** Give me a break. I’m only human. My expensive dick can’t help what it does.

 **Mickey (12:08 PM):** Mmhm

 **Mickey (12:09 PM):** Might need to take the edge off first

 **Ian (12:09 PM):** Oh yeah?

 **Ian (12:09 PM):** How do you propose doing that?

 **Mickey (12:10 PM):** I dunno. Wait and see

 **Ian (12:10 PM):** Tease. 🔫

 **Mickey (12:10 PM):** 🔪

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey smirks, clicks off his phone screen, and finishes up his lunch.

He goes to the mall’s discount store before leaving work that afternoon and picks up an extra set of sheets--something he figures he should probably have if they’re gonna be upping the amount of mess they make--and, just for the hell of it, grabs a box of baby wipes. 

Or should he get paper towels?

How much is _actually_ gonna come back out of him, and like, how do people deal with the mess when they have sex sometimes more than once per night? Is he gonna have to wipe his ass in front of Ian? Or always go to the bathroom immediately after they fuck? 

That’d be annoying. He likes waking up sometimes in the middle of the night to a nice, slow, spooning fuck and then falling back asleep right after, his body lax and warm and tingly with pleasure.

He realizes people have raw sex all the fuckin’ time, but well, he’s never done it before, so he’s not sure what to expect.

Should they put down a _towel_?

Just in case, he gets both the baby wipes _and_ the paper towels, and before he checks out, he eyes a stack of bath towels before deciding not to be so fucking weird over this, goddammit. 

\---

When he gets back to his apartment, he changes into his black jogging shorts and an army green T-shirt of Ian’s because apparently they’re sharing clothes now, and then he puts on [some music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jNY_wLukVW0&list=PLxzSZG7g8c8x6GYz_FcNr-3zPQ7npP6WF) and throws a frozen, family size pasta bake into the oven.

Mickey takes a moment to look around the apartment then, the room filled with the sounds of Thom Yorke’s voice and the little crunches of Jovi enjoying a couple of his cat treats.

He breathes out a sigh when he realizes just how much of _Ian_ has creeped into his space, little by little. 

Draped over the back of the recliner, he’s got that gray, zip-up sweatshirt he was wearing in the goddamn Instagram photo Mickey accidentally liked. His black and white Air Jordans are scattered haphazardly under the coffee table. His Sunbeam stand mixer’s in the kitchen from their last attempt at baking a cake from scratch, and Mickey knows that if he were to go into the bedroom, he’d find _just in case_ bottles of Ian’s meds stored in the top drawer of his dresser, mixed in with miscellaneous shit Mickey has tucked away for safekeeping: lease agreements, warranty documents, W-2 forms.

His _smell_ is even here. Whiffs of Nautica Voyage cologne left over from his last pre-date spritz. The orangey scent of his deodorant in the pits of the shirt Mickey’s wearing. His shampoo on one of the bed pillows. The cheap detergent and cigarettes Gallagher family smell that Ian still somehow carries on his skin and his clothes, baked into that gray sweatshirt that Mickey maybe inhales a bit as he walks past.

It’s got black cat hair on it from where Jovi’s been using it as a bed, and really, something about that’s incredibly appropriate, this image of togetherness, somehow. Bits of Ian mixed in with bits of Mickey. Their lives intertwined.

He picks up the sweatshirt and shakes it out. Zips it up and considers putting it somewhere the cat won’t get to it. But at the last second, he drapes it over the back of the recliner again, if only because he likes looking at it.

It’s a reminder that Ian’s been here and will be here again. That he trusts Mickey with his clothes and his meds and his body and his life.

It makes his stomach twist when he drops down on the sofa and feels the shoes under the coffee table against his bare feet. When he turns on the TV and pulls up Netflix, seeing his own profile populated with some of Ian’s shit, the motherfucker too lazy to pull up his own when he was looking for something to watch the other night while Mickey took a shower.

He puts on _Unsolved Mysteries_ , which Ian had been watching, apparently, and smokes a couple cigarettes while he waits for the oven alarm.

\---  
\---

Ian knocks _obnoxiously_ when he arrives an hour later--this annoying-ass, two-handed rapid-fire knocking that sounds like a fuckin’ machine gun.

“The fuck’s wrong with you?” Mickey asks when he finally unlocks and pulls open the door to find Ian standing there in his EMT uniform, his usual navy overnight bag slung over one shoulder and another larger black one slung over the other.

“Hello to you, too,” Ian answers easily, smirking. 

Mickey steps aside and lets him in, grumpy expression fully in place, but he can’t help but smile when Ian leans in as he walks past, pressing his face into the warm space at Mickey’s neck and giving him a series of quick, smacking kisses that aren’t unlike the knocks on the door.

“Alright, alright,” Mickey complains after several seconds, stepping back and giving Ian a gentle kick to the shin. “Go put your shit down. I’ve got dinner.”

“You’re wearin’ my shirt, bitch,” Ian comments as he makes his way to Mickey’s bedroom.

Mickey shrugs and steps over to the kitchen area to take plates from the cabinet. “Shouldn’t‘a left it here, _bitch_.”

He scoops out some baked ziti onto two plates and grabs forks and then drinks from the fridge--a beer and a Vanilla Coke--before arranging everything on his little kitchen table and having a seat.

He hears Ian puttering around the apartment--using the bathroom, changing out of and then hanging up his EMT uniform, and talking to Jovi in the bedroom. A warmth washes over Mickey at it, this sense of _calm_ and _good_ and _right_.

Ian’s humming something, and there’s the sound of an overnight bag being unzipped and, a minute later, rezipped. 

And then, finally, Ian saunters back into the kitchen barefoot, dressed in a pair of dark gray sweatshorts and a black T-shirt that looks like it fit him best several thousand hormones ago. The sleeves are short, exposing his biceps, and he’s one angry thought away from hulking out of it altogether.

He’s hot, though, and Mickey can’t help but grab at him playfully when he passes by his chair, hooking his fingers in the side of his waistband and giving him a tug.

“Hi,” Ian says once he’s standing inches away, Mickey’s face at belly-level.

Mickey tickles his fingers up Ian’s sides, sliding the shirt up as he goes, and then leans in and presses a soft, lingering kiss to the skin above his navel, nose dragging against the light dusting of ginger fuzz trailing down the center of his stomach. He smells warm and safe, like a favorite blanket, and Mickey closes his eyes as he holds his lips to him, reveling in the gentle rise and fall of Ian’s belly as he breathes.

He pulls back to look up at him after a long moment, smiling in a way he knows--and can’t help as much as he tries--looks fond as fuck. 

“Hi,” he replies, tugging Ian’s shirt back down and gently shoving him away.

Ian’s cheeks look a little warm as he practically _floats_ over to the other side of the table and has a seat. “Sure you don’t want me to stand there a little longer?” he asks, picking up his Coke and unscrewing the lid with a _sssss_. 

“Later. Eat your dinner.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mickey raises an eyebrow at him and sets in to eat, as well.

\---

The thing about Ian is that he’s fun as hell to talk to, even when he’s being annoying.

“If you like piña coladas--” he sings, voice volume low, stabbing a noodle with his fork. “Gettin’ caught in the rain.”

He has another earworm, and it’s just those two lines, over and over again. Mickey wants to kill him.

“Somebody was playin’ it at the station this morning, and everybody’s been singin’ it all day,” Ian says, shoveling in the noodles and talking with his mouth slightly full.

“That’s the worst fuckin’ song to have in your head, man,” Mickey grumbles, picking up his beer bottle by the neck. 

“Worse than ‘hot damn, hot water, hot shower?’”

“Now you can shut the fuck up.” Mickey takes a drink of his beer and holds up his middle finger. “That shit was in my head for a fuckin’ week.”

Ian smirks at him and gives him a little kick under the table. “That was fun.” He takes a sip of his Coke. “Our first date night.”

Mickey shrugs and drags his fork around in the globs of melted mozzarella and meat sauce on his plate. “Good ending, too.”

“Oh yeah?”

“The humpin’ was a little weird, but I can’t complain.”

Ian bursts out laughing, and Mickey smiles when he feels the cold bottoms of Ian’s bare feet press against the tops of his. 

After Ian’s laughter peters off, they eat quietly for a moment, the only sounds being the scraping of their forks on their plates. Ian looks thoughtful, eyes cutting every so often over to Mickey and lips, when he’s not chewing, pressed in a straight line.

“What’s up?” Mickey asks, moving one of his feet out from under Ian’s and resting it on top, instead. He rubs the pads of his toes over it. Feels his bones. Feels the weird toenail that’s only halfway grown back in. Feels the couple of soft, wispy hairs on the knuckle of each toe.

Ian shrugs and chews slowly. Swallows. “We’re kinda lucky, y’know?”

They’re not gonna have a long, drawn-out conversation about it because they’re not like that, really. But yeah. They’re lucky. They’re _fucking lucky_.

Mickey knows that as much as he knows anything, and it fills his heart and his belly with heat and with peace and with a sense of calm, knowing that out of all the ways the universe can be fucked up and cruel and nothing but a chain of events that happen for seemingly no rhyme or reason, somehow _this_ has happened.

Mickey’s never really put any stock in luck, as he’s never seemed to ever have any.

But well, maybe this is the universe’s way of making amends. Maybe it fuckin’ owes him something.

All he knows for sure, though, is that Ian Gallagher’s eating dinner at his kitchen table while singing “[Escape](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TazHNpt6OTo),” and their bare feet are touching, and life is really great right now.

“Yeah,” Mickey murmurs, his reply coming so late that Ian’s probably already moved on to another train of thought. 

Even if he has, though, he seems to easily circle back around, his expression going soft and open as he reaches out a hand and meets Mickey’s in the middle of the table.

It’s almost unbearably sappy, really, but they hold left hands while they eat and talk, their conversation moving on to lighter things--to petty work drama and Mandy’s recent break-up and what the hell’s up with Debbie.

And when they’re done, they finally separate but just so they can do chores together, Mickey washing the dishes and Ian wiping down the counter and table and then feeding Jovi.

It’s domestic, and Mickey feels homey and comfortable afterward when he’s drying his hands on a dish towel and Ian’s sliding up behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist, and resting the side of his head against the center of his upper back. He squeezes Mickey in a hug.

“How’d they do the test?” Mickey asks, holding on to the arms wrapped around his middle, feeling the rise and fall of Ian’s body as he breathes--as he noses his way up the back of Mickey’s neck and sniffs him a bit behind his ear.

Ian _hmm_ s and holds up his left index finger. “Just a prick.”

Mickey bends forward and presses a kiss to the pad of Ian’s finger, where there’s a tiny, purply-red dot.

In response, Ian mouths at Mickey’s neck, just below his earlobe. It’s a bit of a sucking kiss, but it’s gentle and sweet, like he just wants to taste him.

“It took like, twenty minutes,” he murmurs afterward, breath smelling like the meat sauce from dinner. “And now I have permission to rock your world, Milkovich.”

He punctuates his last few words with gentle, teasing thrusts against Mickey’s ass, and Mickey snorts at him, leaning his head back and resting it on Ian’s shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah, tough guy. We’ll see whose world gets rocked.”

“Oh, I _know_ my world’s gonna get rocked, man.” Ian ducks in and kisses his cheek, and Mickey turns around to face him, letting Ian lock his hands behind his back so they’re held tightly together.

“I got an extra pair of sheets,” Mickey says quietly, and he doesn’t know _why_ he says it, as it’s embarrassing. He’s blushing a little, he knows, but Ian just smiles at him kindly and bends to peck his mouth.

“We should probably invest in a washer and dryer at some point.”

The fact that Ian says _we_ isn’t lost on Mickey, who slides his hands up to hold both sides of his face. He exhales heavily, and he almost expects Ian to walk it back, to say, _”You,” I mean. I meant “you.”_ in a similar fashion to how he corrected his _our nightstand_ slip several days ago.

But he doesn’t. And maybe it’s because he didn’t notice--not having the written evidence in front of him--or maybe it’s because he’s sincere about it, and he’s really, truly considering a life in which they cohabitate--living together in _their_ home with _their_ sheets and _their_ washer and dryer.

Whatever the reason, Mickey slowly pulls him down and kisses him, and he murmurs, “Yeah, we should,” against his lips.

Ian nods their faces together and tilts for a better angle, their eyes crossing as they open them to watch each other as they kiss.

And still, he doesn’t correct himself.

\---  
\---

It’s much easier to get naked when you’re barefoot and don’t have to worry about belts or buttons. When you’re comfortable and sleepy and dressed for home.

They undress on their way to Mickey’s room and then fall on the bed together, kissing. Mickey drapes himself over Ian as they do, and Ian cups the back of his head, stroking his palm up and down and repeatedly carding his fingers through his hair. 

“You interested in a bet?” Mickey asks after several minutes of slow, thorough kissing--when their breath has amped up, when their mouths are wet and slick and spit-shiny. He takes Ian by the hands and pins him down, throwing a leg across his hips so he can straddle him.

Ian’s cheeks are pink. He rolls his eyes. “I’m not bettin’ you how long I’m gonna last.”

Mickey bites a smile off his lips before swooping down and pressing an affectionate kiss to Ian’s brow. “Sixty seconds.”

“Fuck you.”

“Loser has to walk of shame the sheets to the laundromat.”

Ian stares at him for a moment before rolling his eyes with a huff. “Fine.” And then, with a quirk of his mouth, murmurs, “Thirty seconds.”

Mickey bursts out laughing and drops down onto Ian, who wraps his arms around his back. “Deal,” he says once he’s controlled himself, sucking a gentle kiss to the warmth of his neck.

“Gonna take the edge off,” he adds, sliding his hands around to scoop at the back of Ian’s head. “Might wanna reevaluate your bet.”

“See, I don’t think you understand,” Ian starts, breath stuttering between _you_ and _understand_ as Mickey begins to trail his mouth down his neck, pausing to suck at his collarbone. 

“Mm?”

“It’s not about the act itself, man.” He sighs and moves one of his hands to the back of Mickey’s head, starting up that rubbing and carding motion again.

Mickey drags his open mouth down between Ian’s pecs, leaning back for a moment to admire the wet trails and pink suck-marks he’s leaving behind. “What is it then, Two-Pump?”

Ian kicks his calf, but he’s smiling, and his breath’s coming out in long, slow streams as Mickey moves over to lap at his nipple.

“Like, uh,” he starts before breaking into a breathy moan. “Like the thought of bein’ in you like that. Drives me fuckin’ crazy. I dunno.” 

Ian exhales heavily, and Mickey smirks and moves to the other nipple.

Ian likes this. He _really_ fucking likes this.

He’d told Mickey as much months ago when they were talking about random kestrel shit--said he was really into getting his nipples sucked.

At the time, Mickey’d thought it was hot to think about, hot to imagine, but it’s nothing compared to what it’s like to actually do it to him, to spend focused attention on licking and sucking at him.

He takes Ian’s right nipple into his mouth and runs his tongue in rhythmic strokes over and over the little nub, and just at that sensation, Ian squeezes his eyes shut, arches his back, and whispers, “Oh, fuck.”

Mickey moves to the left and repeats the action, this time getting the pad of his thumb on Ian’s right nipple and rubbing at it while he sucks and licks at the other. 

He’s only done this a couple times, and it’s not like Ian wouldn’t be an enthusiastic recipient no matter what because he’s fucking _nice_. But Mickey just focuses on what he thinks he’d like, and the results, he has to say, are a huge confidence boost.

After a few minutes of constant licking, sucking, and rhythmic little pushes and circles of his thumbs, he notices Ian’s hard cock pressed against his belly--thinks it might be a little wet at the head, even, a little bloom of pre-come dragging onto MIckey’s skin. 

Mickey blows out a breath at that, arousal surging through his body in pleasure-tingles that make his pelvis feel heavy and his limbs feel weak.

“You’re fuckin’ good at this,” Ian groans when Mickey moves his mouth to his sternum, his own panting getting a bit too out of hand to maintain his previously steady and focused pattern of licks and sucks.

He smiles against Ian’s spit-damp skin, the compliment making him feel good--good because he’s glad he’s okay at it, good because he wants to make Ian feel awesome in all ways--and presses a squeaking kiss to his chest that’s a little sweeter than he’d initially intended.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, breath reflecting in hot puffs back onto his face. He kisses Ian’s chest a few more times--gives him a couple last smile-filled licks and sucks to his nipples--and then slides down the bed until he’s face-level with his cock.

Of the two of them, Mickey’s the pre-come winner, hands down, bar none, nobody else need compete. 

But Ian’s doing pretty well for himself, here, his cock lying heavy against his belly at one o’clock, the head shiny with wetness and a viscous little drip leaking out onto the ginger fuzz beneath his navel.

“Ya call me a leaker,” Mickey mumbles, taking Ian’s cock in hand and smirking when Ian stuffs another pillow beneath his head so he can look down at him.

Their eyes meet, and Ian quirks his lips, and Mickey slowly, slowly takes the messy head into his mouth.

“ _Shit_ , Mickey,” Ian pushes out through his teeth, and Mickey peers up and watches as his eyes go unfocused and lids get heavy.

Closing his own eyes, Mickey breathes out in a little puff and strokes his right palm up and down the bits of Ian’s cock he can’t take in as he does the best he can to give him a slow, indulgent blowjob.

He realizes he’s mostly doing this to help Ian last longer when he fucks him, but shit, he loves him, and he wants him to feel good, and it’s making Mickey hard as hell to hear all his little breathy sounds, to taste the salty surges on his tongue, to feel the thrum of blood beneath his warm skin and the rhythmic throb when he’s close.

Curious, Mickey slides his flat palms up Ian’s belly and touches the pads of his fingers to his peaked nipples. And in as coordinated a fashion as possible, he hands-free bobs his head on his dick while he rubs and lightly pinches at him.

Ian loses his fucking mind.

“ _Jesus_ , Mick,” he moans, breathy, thighs opening restlessly and squeezing around Mickey’s shoulders. “So fuckin’ hot.”

There’s a quiver in Ian’s belly that Mickey feels against his outstretched forearms and a rush of Ian’s pre-come against his soft palate. Mickey uses that as his cue to go faster, harder if he can--to curl his tongue against Ian’s cock and hollow his cheeks and rub at his nipples with his thumbs until Ian’s arching his back and groaning loudly in a way he so rarely does during sex.

“Okay. _Ooo_ -kay,” Ian shakes out, and it’s cute as fuck that he does this sometimes--gets all wobbly, high-pitched, and talky, his voice the perfect reflection of his body at cliff’s-edge.

Mickey drags his hands back down Ian’s chest and touches them to his lower belly, right where the muscles are beginning to kick, and starts up an encouraging massage that he complements with soft, focused sucks to his cock.

After several seconds of that, Ian inhales sharply and, through his exhale, breathes, “Gonna come, Mick. Oh, fuck.”

Mickey keeps up the massage, sliding a bit lower to rub at his pelvis, to scratch his nails into his pubic hair, and with a series of tight, steady bobs of his head punctuated by tongue-swirls to the underside of Ian’s cock, Mickey pulls him over the edge.

It’s hard for Mickey to tell how much Ian actually comes, as the sensation of someone coming in his mouth is just all-around weird, even if it is hot. But it feels like a lot, and all he can think about as he swallows and gentles Ian with his still-massaging hands and soft licks to his cock is what it’s gonna be like to have that happen while they’re fucking.

Will he be able to _feel_ it?

He pulls off and presses a couple chaste pecks to the side of Ian’s dick and then to the furry crease of his thigh where it’s warm and sweat-damp, and then lets Ian tug him up so they can kiss on the mouth.

“God, Mickey,” Ian murmurs, pulling his face in for a hot smear that drags along his lips and chin. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me one day.”

Mickey smiles into the kiss because this shit just feels good. Being like this. Sharing this with someone.

“Still think you’re only gonna last thirty seconds?” Mickey asks, giving him a teasing little bite to the chin.

In one heaving motion, Ian rolls Mickey onto his back and covers him with his body. “Gimme ten minutes and it’s gonna be like this never happened.”

“Ten minutes, huh?”

Ian quirks his mouth, looks off to the side, and tilts his head as if reevaluating his choice of words. “Maybe five.”

“Yeah,” Mickey whispers, getting a hand on the back of his head and pulling him down to touch their mouths together. “Okay.”

\---

Once he’s caught his breath, Ian offers to blow Mickey in return, but Mickey just slaps at Ian’s ass and pulls his knees up around his narrow hips, pressing his feet flat against the mattress.

“You just work on gettin’ on me,” he says in response before biting his lip. He quirks a brow, and Ian grins at him, and there’s just so much in that meeting of eyes, in that smile, that Mickey feels it down to his toes.

They talk about random, inconsequential shit for a few minutes, Ian running his fingers through Mickey’s hair the whole time and periodically leaning in to kiss at his face. At one point, Jovi comes bounding in with a trill, clearly looking to play, and attempts to get in bed with them.

Mickey shoves at Ian, and with a snicker, Ian gets up, shoos the cat out into the hallway, and closes the door.

“Guess we’re fuckin’ parents, man,” Ian says afterward, climbing back on top of him.

And there it is again--the reference to a _them_. An _us_. We.

Mickey sucks his bottom lip into his mouth for a moment, thinking. Contemplating. And with a shrug, he says, “You’re definitely the mom.”

“Oh, fuck you!”

“You let him do whatever the fuck he wants.”

“Why’s that a _mom_ thing?”

Mickey shrugs and wraps one arm around Ian’s neck. “Dunno. Just is.”

“So that makes you the dad?” After a second, Ian smirks. “Daddy.”

Mickey snorts and gets his legs up around Ian’s waist. “Shut up.”

“Why’s Jovi gotta have straight hypothetical parents? He can have two dads if he wants.”

Mickey _hmm_ s and shrugs because whatever. Fair point. “You’re the soft one, then.”

Ian slides a hand down between their bodies to fumble around with his dick. “Not _quite_ , but sure.” He touches at Mickey’s on the way back up, fingers sliding along his shaft and playing in the wetness pooled around the head. “You’re _definitely_ the hard one, though.”

“I really hate you,” Mickey grumbles at his dorky-ass boyfriend, throwing his other arm around his neck and pulling him down to kiss.

“Never been less true.”

Mickey’s “fuck you” is a barely-intelligible mumble against Ian’s mouth.

They let their kisses work them up until they’re panting, and then Ian’s leaning over and pulling open the nightstand drawer to fumble for the lube.

“Did you actually throw away the condoms?” he asks, hand dragging around in the front section of the drawer.

Mickey flushes because well, he didn’t _throw them away_ , but he did move them to the bathroom cabinet where he’s got a lot of random shit he never uses.

“Cute motherfucker,” Ian says, taking out the lube and shutting the drawer.

\---

Mickey learned pretty early on in his and Ian’s sexual relationship that not every second of sex is _sexy_. 

Sometimes weird shit happens, and there can be awkward sounds and chafing and stopping to reapply lube. Sometimes Ian’s dick slips out of Mickey’s ass and has to be fumbled back in, and sometimes positions don’t work well and have to be readjusted. 

And like, shit, sometimes one of them gags too hard during a fast blowjob and has to pull off to breathe in little sips of air to keep from puking. 

And well, sometimes certain acts can go either way--can be clinical or hot, depending on the circumstance.

Sometimes getting Mickey ready is sexy as hell, with dirty talk and kisses and Ian’s mouth around Mickey’s cock while he fingers him open.

But sometimes it’s Ian blushing furiously while he does it and Mickey staring at him with a smirk.

“Fifty seconds,” Mickey amends, eyes wandering up to the ceiling because there’s something about the pink of Ian’s cheeks and the sweet, panting breaths he’s taking that gets him worried about his own stamina.

He hears Ian blow out a breath and bites his lip to the feel of him sliding in a third finger.

“Still goin’ for thirty,” Ian whispers, voice shaky.

“Forty-five.”

“You’re gonna be at ten by the time I actually get in you.”

Mickey moves his gaze back to Ian, who’s slowly and ridiculously gently thrusting three fingers inside him, and exhales because _fuck_ , okay, yeah, it’s hot, even clinical shit can be hot.

“Not if you hurry up and get on with it,” he moans, stretching his arms out to touch lightly at Ian’s freckly shoulders.

Ian presses his lips together and nods.

“Twenty-five,” he says, pulling out, moving up, and easing his hips between Mickey’s legs. He bends his head to press his lips in three chaste little kisses to Mickey’s forehead.

“Forty,” Mickey responds, wrapping his arms around him in a tight hug.

Things shift, then, and suddenly it’s no longer sweet, awkward fingering or teasing. Ian nuzzles into Mickey’s neck for nearly a full minute and just breathes, and Mickey rubs at his back and loves him and waits until he’s ready.

When Ian finally lifts his face and takes himself in hand, he starts to press against Mickey’s entrance before pausing abruptly and reaching for the lube again, having forgotten to lube his dick.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, tone of voice incongruous with the fact that he’s stroking lube onto his erection.

Mickey shrugs at him and waits while he reaches for a Kleenex on the nightstand and wipes off his hands. 

Ian settles in between his legs again and presses his face in close, their foreheads almost touching. 

He works his mouth like he wants to say something, and Mickey raises his eyebrows. “What’s up?”

After a few beats of silence, Ian says, “Haven’t really done this since I was seventeen.”

And Mickey knows he’s not just saying _he hasn’t done it since he was seventeen_. He’s saying he hasn’t done it since that time before he was on meds, when he apparently went fuckin’ batshit and had to be hospitalized.

He’s saying he hasn’t done it safely and healthily and with someone he cares about.

Suddenly, it all makes sense. Ian being strict about testing. Ian wanting to do everything _the right way_. Wanting to be physically monogamous. To take things slow.

Ian wants, for the first time in his adult life, to be _healthy_.

“I love you,” Mickey murmurs, rubbing at the back of his neck.

He pulls him in, and he kisses him. Soft. Slow. Gentle.

“Twenty,” Ian says in a whisper, pressing their noses together, breath warm against Mickey’s lips.

\---

He slides inside easily, his skin and Mickey’s body both slick with lube.

It doesn’t feel all that different to Mickey. Maybe warmer, the temperature of Ian’s cock not dulled by the latex barrier. 

But the fact that Ian’s bare and that all the little parts of him are going to mix with all the little parts of Mickey makes him lose his breath. Makes a bit of pre-come well up in his slit, only to be smeared against Ian’s lower belly.

Mickey slides his arms up under Ian’s sweaty pits and watches his face while he adjusts.

He’s blowing his breath out slowly through pursed lips, his eyes squeezed shut, and it may actually be the cutest fucking thing Mickey’s ever seen.

“ _Fuck_ , Mickey,” he whispers, giving a quick little thrust--a hip-wiggle more than anything else. 

Mickey smiles because he really can’t help it and tugs Ian down to kiss him. “Do your thing, man,” he murmurs against his lips, and Ian does.

He actually makes it for much longer than either of them had anticipated, thrusting in jerky, arrhythmic pushes for probably a minute and a half before his face screws up and eyes go unfocused.

Mickey slides his hands down to his ass and pulls him hard against him and into him, groaning at the feeling of Ian’s fuzzy belly rubbing against his cock with every thrust.

“I’m gonna come in you, Mickey,” Ian pushes out, voice weak and drunken.

And fuck, _fuck_ if that doesn’t about send Mickey to the edge. He slides his right hand down between their bodies and begins to stroke himself, squeezing his eyes shut and clinging desperately to Ian with his left arm.

“ _God_ , I’m gonna come in you. Oh, fuck.”

Mickey whines and scratches his nails lightly against Ian’s skin. “Do it,” he encourages, right hand moving faster on his cock as Ian shifts his angle, now stroking against Mickey’s prostate with every thrust.

“Okay,” Ian says in that wavery, high-pitched voice, and _fuck_ , it’s cute, and Mickey opens his eyes and smiles at him and pulls up his free hand to touch at his face. 

Ian’s blissed out, and when Mickey pulls his face down to kiss him, he breathes hot breath against his lips and gets his tongue out a little like it’s all he can do, his brain too keyed-in to his cock to get his mouth working right.

“Gonna come,” he whispers, and Mickey says, “Yeah, yeah, fuckin’ come in me,” and with a handful of thrusts that become progressively weaker, like Ian’s hips are giving out, he does.

He fucking _does_ , and Mickey squeezes his eyes shut at it because _holy shit_.

He _feels it_.

There’s the throbbing of Ian’s cock, which he can feel even through condoms, but there’s also the warm, wet little surges. 

It’s not defined enough that Mickey can count how many there are, but he recognizes the blooming warmth, and he hears the slick, slick sounds of Ian’s suddenly very wet cock moving in him, and he feels a bit of come start to drip out of him when Ian pulls back all the way before pushing in again.

It’s the hottest thing he’s ever experienced, and there’s white noise in his ears as he feels Ian’s hand on his dick, feels Ian’s hips _still_ moving, even after he’s come, and suddenly, suddenly feels like he’s _flying_.

Mickey comes hard, Ian doing the best he can with his hand and half-hard dick to make it as good as possible for him, and fuck, _fuck_ , it is. 

It’s good, and it’s searing, and he feels it _everywhere_.

“Holy shit,” he finds himself panting over and over again, and then it’s muffled because Ian’s mouth is on his, and apparently he’s able to kiss again because he does, he does, and it’s the best thing Mickey’s ever felt.

“ _Fuck_ , I love you,” Ian mumbles against his lips, still thrusting as if he’s trying for a second time. “I love you.”

Mickey’s sensitive, so he blows out a breath and gentles Ian with his hands, running them down his sides and around to his sacrum until Ian, with a huffy laugh, gets the hint and settles down.

“Sorry,” he whispers. 

Mickey kisses him in response, and they lie there for several minutes, sharing breath and reveling in the fact that Ian can stay in him as long as he wants.

Mickey feels the come sliding out of him even around Ian’s cock. His crack’s wet, and he’s sure there’s gonna be a spot on the sheet beneath his ass. 

And he’d been nervous about it earlier, but who the fuck cares?

He’ll just lie like this forever, and he’ll kiss Ian forever, and he’ll feel good and safe and loved 

**forever**.

\---

“How long was that?” Ian asks eventually, wiggling his hips a bit as if testing out the hardness of his cock and its current ability to fuck.

“Who gives a shit?” Mickey replies, locking his legs back around Ian’s waist. “Fuck me again.”

\---

Ian wasn’t lying in his text several days prior about wanting to fuck him all night. It may not come to fruition in the most literal of senses, but they sure do fuckin’ _try_.

The lamp on the nightstand stays on until morning, as they never actually reach a point where they decide they’re ready to call it a night. They fuck, and they doze, and it’s not like they each have more than four or five orgasms total, but the sex gets softer and longer as the night goes on.

It’s four o’clock eventually, and Ian’s been inside Mickey for nearly forty-five minutes, just occasionally waking from a dazy nap to thrust for a minute or so before cuddling him to his chest and letting his eyes fall closed again. 

Mickey’s got his left hand on Ian’s thigh and his right clasping his hand against his chest, and he’s never felt so warm and sleepy and tingly in his life, Ian’s intermittent thrusts building up his arousal bit by bit in such a gentle, measured way that his body feels like a slowly-spreading fire started from one tiny spark.

He comes at 4:07, once Ian’s apparently decided to be awake enough to finish the job, and he laughs weakly when it happens.

“I’m gonna be fuckin’ useless all day,” he grumbles, twisting so he can give Ian a sleepy kiss before climbing out of bed.

The _what do you do when there’s come leaking from your ass_ situation wasn’t as bad to figure out as Mickey thought. The answer, he found, is dab at yourself with a bit of Kleenex if you want, but it’s not a _huge_ amount that slides back out, and it mostly just makes you feel a little gross and slippery. It’s not _terribly_ different from being all luby, still, after sex with condoms.

He did have to get up and go to the bathroom after the third round, though, because it was getting a little ridiculous.

He hits the bathroom again this time and wets a washcloth on his way back to bring to Ian.

“Wipe your dick,” he says, throwing it at him, and Ian grumbles like Mickey’s tried to wake him up for school.

He does eventually, though, after a minute of rubbing his eyes and cringing under the rapidly-cooling washcloth flopped across his shoulder, and then throws it carelessly onto the floor and opens his arms for Mickey.

Mickey slides once more into bed and presses his back to Ian’s chest, and the two of them sleep like the very happy dead.

\---  
\---

Ian pulls Mickey’s newly-vacated pillow over his head when Mickey gets up at seven to get ready for work.

He’s off today, and Mickey’d told him to just hang out and do whatever he wanted. Apparently, what he wants to do this morning is turn into a grumbly, sleepy teenager.

“Help yourself to the fridge, man,” Mickey says once he’s showered, dressed, and standing in his bedroom with a styrofoam cup of black coffee.

Ian rolls over onto his back and yawns.

And after pausing for a moment, considering the weight, Mickey finishes with, “There’s an extra key on top of the doorframe. You can like, keep it or whatever.”

At that, Ian opens his eyes, and Mickey can’t help but bend to kiss his pillow-creased face.

\---  
\---

It’s stupid, maybe, but Mickey thinks they’re both probably feeling a little vulnerable about what they did last night, the unprotected sex an unspoken indication that they’re really fucking _in this_.

Though their texting has significantly decreased in frequency since they started regularly seeing each other, they find themselves doing it a few times an hour the entire time Mickey’s at work, as if they don’t want to let each other go.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (9:02 AM):** Take the sheets to the laundromat

 **Mickey (9:02 AM):** You lost cuz my bet was technically the closest

 **Ian (9:03 AM):** Suck my dick. 🖕

 **Mickey (9:03 AM):** Already did last night

 **Mickey (9:04 AM):** Or did I rock your world so hard you got amnesia

 **Ian (9:04 AM):** Something like that. Sure. 😑

\-------------------------------------------------------

At a little after ten, two pictures come in: a photo of a stack of banana pancakes dripping in syrup and a selfie of Ian and Mrs. Callaghan.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (10:11 AM):** How’d you swing that

 **Ian (10:11 AM):** She caught me coming in from my jog. 🥞🥓

 **Ian (10:12 AM):** Also, she really loves you. I hope you know that.

 **Mickey (10:13 AM):** You been talkin about me

 **Ian (10:13 AM):** Among other things, yeah.

 **Ian (10:13 AM):** Got a problem with that?

 **Mickey (10:14 AM):** 🖕

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey smiles to himself as he swipes out of iMessage.

It’s a strange emotional place for him to be in, he thinks, opening up Spotify and putting on [Spoon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IpT5SBg1Mmk). 

He’s at work, and there are people who care about him at home, talking about him like he occupies space in the world and in others’ minds in a way he never before thought he did or could or deserved.

He has someone who loves him enough to get poked with a needle so they can safely be close. Someone who’s planned a birthday weekend for him. Who says “we” and “our” and who strives to be in good graces with his landlady because he knows she means a lot to him.

He’s three days away from turning twenty-seven, and for once, the upcoming year doesn’t feel so lonely. His existence doesn’t feel so futile.

\---

Ian texts him a video several minutes later, and Mickey has to put his wrist against his lips to keep from laughing inappropriately as a pack of mall walkers pass by.

It was clearly taken in secret, and Ian’s resting his chin on his fist, elbow to the table, as Mrs. Callaghan dances past behind him. In the background, a familiar-sounding [brass-heavy soul song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8T3BhEikz6E) is playing, and at one point, Ian bobs his head a little--the fuckin’ dork--and smiles.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (10:29 AM):** The lyrics sound like you last night

 **Ian (10:29 AM):** I’m gonna kill you. 🔫

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey smirks.

Not so lonely. Not so futile.

\---  
\---

When he gets home, Ian’s eating a purple freeze pop and watching _BoJack Horseman_.

He’s wearing a dark green, striped tank top and jeans, and his bare feet are propped up on the coffee table beside Jovi, who’s sleeping in a little curl on top of one of Mickey’s magazines.

“Yo,” Mickey greets casually, giving him a playful swat on the head as he passes by the couch on the way to the kitchen.

He grabs a beer from the fridge, making note of some new additions--a container of mixed melon and berries, a large bottle of Pom, and a yogurt-based fruit dip--and then returns to the seating area, dropping down on the cushion beside Ian.

“Hi,” Ian says, leaning to the side to peck his cheek. His lips are cold from the freeze pop. “I bought some snacks.”

Mickey crowds him against the back of the couch and sucks a short but sweet kiss onto his mouth. He tastes like grape.

“And I also got some sunblock and shit ‘cause we’re gonna be in the sun tomorrow.”

“So, which beach are we goin’ to?”

Ian narrows his eyes at him and bites off the last bit of his freeze pop.

“Trunks, water, and sunblock.” Mickey shrugs. “Not hard to figure out, man.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Ian continues, apparently choosing to ignore his boyfriend’s deduction. “I got some stuff. And freeze pops.”

“And you danced to a song about coming with Mrs. Callaghan.”

Ian hits him. “It’s not about _coming_.”

“Whatever, man.” Mickey squeezes his thigh and gets up to change and pack. “Maybe you should put on ‘Pony’ next time.”

Ian holds up both middle fingers.

“But can I just say one thing?” he calls from the living room a minute later as Mickey’s unbuttoning his uniform top.

“Hm?”

“The fact that you know ‘Pony’ is like, really sexy to me, Mickey.”

Mickey presses his fist to his mouth for a moment, keeping back a grin and allowing him to school his expression and therefore his voice. 

“Whatever, man,” he says, going back to his task of undressing.

\---

He doesn’t really have an overnight bag, but he has an army green backpack that he stuffs with whatever he thinks he’ll need for a day and a half.

When he’s all changed and finished packing, he and Ian leave to get take-out tacos and fountain drink Pepsis at a place down the street and then head over to the park where Mickey found Jovi.

Most of the Clean Up the Southside situation’s led to nothing but shit for people who’ve lived here their whole lives. But one thing it’s hard to complain about is the improvements to some of the parks--this one, included.

Months ago, it was just a few benches bolted into poured concrete on a bald, grassy yard. But now, there are actually a few as-yet un-graffiti’d picnic tables installed, along with a swing-set and a large, dome jungle gym, and parts of the lawn have been covered with red mulch.

Mickey tells Ian all the details about finding Jovi as they spread out their food on one of the picnic tables. And then for the next hour, they eat a dozen tacos between them and play around in the park, eventually migrating from the picnic table to the jungle gym, where Ian decides to be a dumbass and climb up.

“Are you fuckin’ five years old, man?” Mickey asks, gripping one of the bars on the side.

“Sure. Come up.”

And well, fuck it. He does.

They sit together at the top of the jungle gym and smoke cigarettes and talk about random shit as the sky begins to darken.

\---

“I love just hangin’ out with you,” Ian admits a few minutes before they leave, finishing off his last cigarette and crushing it out on one of the bars.

Mickey looks at him, and it’s hard not to smile--even just a little--when you feel so good about life for the first time in your entire existence.

\---  
\---

The next morning, Ian’s up at eight, which feels like the ass-crack of dawn when it’s Saturday and Mickey’s used to sleeping until eleven.

Mickey takes his turn playing Ian from Friday morning, grumbling at the insistence that he get up. But he does eventually tear himself away from his warm bed when Ian says he’s not gonna have time to fuck him in the shower if he doesn’t.

“ _Fine_ ,” he says, standing on sleep-wobbly legs and adjusting his boxers, picking out a wedgie.

“I’ll show you _fine_.” Ian takes him by the shoulders and steers him into the bathroom.

Though it’s a million times better than Ian’s, Mickey’s shower isn’t exactly huge, so fucking’s always a little cramped.

Mickey’s morning begins bent at the waist, his forehead pressed against the shower wall and hands gripping the grab bar as Ian squeezes his left shoulder and pounds into him.

“ _Fuck_ , fuck,” he repeats, over and over again, as if the words are being pushed out of him by the sheer force of Ian’s thrusts.

And when he comes… Well. There are worse ways to get going in the morning.

“Would you ever let me take a picture of your asshole?” Ian asks after they’re done, panting slightly and running his fingers around Mickey’s opening, presumably playing in the come he’s left there.

Mickey snorts and straightens, turning around to grasp at Ian’s waist so he can walk them back under the spray. “Why the fuck you wanna picture of my asshole?”

“Y’know.” Ian looks sheepish for a minute, eyes suddenly wandering to the shampoo bottle on the shelf as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. “A picture from like, after sex.”

Mickey smirks. “You’re really fuckin’ dirty, man.”

“Shut up.” He moves his eyes back to Mickey’s and, apparently seeing something in them that makes him feel better, murmurs, “Wash your ass and let’s go.”

Mickey chuckles and grabs the bar of Irish Spring.

\---  
\---

Mickey’s lived in Chicago his entire life. It’s his home. It’s been the backdrop of his existence for nearly twenty-seven years, and he’s only ever left it on drug runs as a teenager or to pick up various family members from prison.

But even though Chicago’s his home--is who he _is_ , really--growing up Southside means growing up on the outskirts. 

He obviously knows Chicago’s a popular tourist spot--that it’s the home of attractions people _come to see_ , wearing their fanny packs and visors and toting around their two point five American Dream kids. 

There’s the Bean and Sears Tower and Wrigley Field and Navy Pier. There’s famous restaurants with deep-dish pizza and there’s the green river around St. Patrick’s Day. 

But Mickey’s never gone to any of that shit unless he was passing by on his way somewhere else. He’s never ridden the Centennial Wheel or gone inside a skyscraper besides the observatory with Ian. Never seen the Fourth of July fireworks over the pier. He’s never seen the Art Institute, and he’s never in his entire life even been in a hotel any fancier than the Holiday Inn in Gary that one time Iggy had a stolen credit card.

Even as a kid, when the school field trips were to all the important places, Mickey was only ever able to go on the one to Shedd Aquarium when he was in first grade because his mom had done all she could to get him the money.

Mickey’s seen drug deals gone wrong and illegal assault weapons sold out the back of vans and a line of Russian prostitutes being marched into the back of a salon.

He’s never gone to the beach. Never dipped his toes in Lake Michigan. Never been brought there by a man who tries to make excuses for it as they wait for an Uber.

“I know it’s not Mexico or anything like you want,” Ian says nervously, voice soft and sweet, fidgeting with his phone. “And I know it’s not even the ocean. But it’s the best I can do for now.”

The cat was out of the bag--if it had ever been in there in the first place--when Ian told Mickey to “dress for sun and water,” as if that was in any way cryptic.

“Again,” Mickey said, skimming his nails playfully against Ian’s belly as they stood together in front of the bathroom sink, shaving and brushing their teeth. “What beach are we goin’ to?”

“I never said we were goin’ to the beach.”

“You takin’ me to the public pool, then?”

Ian smiled, sliding his razor along his jaw. “Whatever. I’ve got trunks for you in my bag.”

Mickey smacked his toweled ass and went to get ready.

The [swim trunks](https://i.ibb.co/1Lx2N7d/Screen-Shot-2020-07-08-at-1-31-24-PM.png) Ian had brought for him were probably short on the tall motherfucker, but they hit him just above his knees. He pulled them on, along with a light blue tank-top and a deep burgundy zip-up hoodie, and put on his slip-on Vans without socks because they’re the only thing he owns even remotely resembling something beach appropriate.

Now, they’re standing in the downstairs common area of Mickey’s building, and Ian’s just ordered an Uber to take them to a hotel near a beach in goddamn Lincoln Park, and Mickey’s biting his lip because he’s _nervous_ to do this.

It’s incredibly fucking normal--something hundreds of families with two point five American Dream kids are going to be doing that day--and yet that’s probably _why_ it makes him nervous, makes him fidget a little and shove his hands inside the pockets of his hoodie.

“Y’ever been to the beach?” he asks Ian, who’s leaned back against the wall near the potted plant he once knocked over, dressed in [board shorts](https://i.ibb.co/SrPNt6F/Screen-Shot-2020-07-08-at-1-35-53-PM.png), a white T-shirt, and a lightweight, navy jacket.

Ian shrugs. “Sorta? Ran on the beach a buncha times, but I dunno. Never had like, a _beach day with the family_.”

It makes Mickey feel better that Ian’s new at it, too. That he’s maybe just as unaccustomed to being normal as Mickey.

Ian takes Mickey by the hand, then, and he presses kisses to his knuckles, four kisses for F-U-C-K.

“We’ll go to a fuckin’ resort in Mexico one day,” he says, voice quiet like he’s telling a secret. 

Mickey nods at him and squeezes his hand. 

Yeah. They will.

\---  
\---

After a twenty minute Uber ride, the two of them clamber out of Renee’s Honda Civic and make their way inside the hotel that’s a skyscraper in its own right.

It’s one of those new, trendy hotels with minimalist lobby furniture and funky artwork and sculptures, and the carpet is clean and gray--none of that stained, patterned shit. 

They can’t actually check in right now, but Ian’s apparently made an arrangement to leave their bags in storage so they don’t have to lug their boxers to Lake Michigan.

Mickey hangs out near the revolving doors while Ian talks to reception. At one point, he sees Ian gesture toward him with a little smile that turns into a wide-eyed, “Work with me here” look when the receptionist turns back to her computer.

“What’s up?” Mickey asks, walking over. He grabs a complimentary peppermint out of the tray on the counter.

Ian presses his lips together for a moment and bounces his eyebrows. “Because we’re _newlyweds_ , Marissa’s getting us an upgrade deal on the honeymoon suite.”

Mickey smirks at Ian as Marissa clacks away at the keyboard, inputting their information and making the transfer.

“ _Alright_ , you’re all set, Mr. and Mr. Gallagher. Check in begins at three, but you’re welcome to make use of our storage lockers at your convenience.” She eyes the sizes of their bags and hands over two locker keys. “Around the corner on the right. Please help yourselves to our complimentary coffee and pastry bar.”

They hold it together until they’re around the corner, where they suddenly break into huge grins. 

“Nice goin’, Mr. Gallagher,” Mickey says, making his way to the pastry bar. He grabs a napkin and two danishes.

“Thanks, Mr. Gallagher.” Ian snatches one of the danishes off Mickey’s napkin and takes a huge bite. 

They spend a long enough time at the pastry bar that a member of hotel staff makes a suspicious couple of passes by them, clearly a little perturbed about the fact that they’ve eaten three danishes each.

Mickey makes a face at him and grabs a banana nut muffin to wrap up for later.

They store most of their bags in the lockers, Ian keeping a black, zip-up beach tote to take with them, and then make their way to the shore.

It’s about a ten minute walk through an area that Mickey’s only ever been in when he was breaking and entering as a teenager. And he knows he has every right to be here, but he still can’t help eyeing the people he passes warily--these old, rich fuckers walking their little dogs and sipping their expensive-ass coffee.

He may be doing okay for himself now--with a job and health insurance and an apartment--but Northside life’s not for him. He’s not made from the same stuff as these rich bitches with hundred-dollar haircuts and Ralph Lauren athletic wear. And that’s fine. 

Southside fuckin’ forever, baby. It’s in his blood.

Ian fits in everywhere, even when he doesn’t. Mickey knows he’s as clueless about a lot of shit as he is, but he’d looked totally fuckin’ comfortable in that hotel, talking to Marissa like he’d just left his daddy’s Gold Coast estate.

It’s something Mickey admires about him, really. He’s handy to have around.

Mickey can lie and cheat and scam when he wants, but Ian’s good at _smooth talking_ , and that’s a skill worth its weight in gold.

\---

The beach is beautiful.

Mickey’s been to the area a time or two, but he’s never been here, standing in the sand staring out at what seems like endless waters ahead of him. It makes him feel both small and powerful. Makes something in his chest unfurl when he thinks about the impossibility of his reality.

And it’s _not_ the ocean, but it could be if you squint, and it’s just as good, really. Mickey closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, reveling in the fresh, aquatic smell and the feel of the warming breeze brushing across his face.

The beach isn’t very crowded, as it’s barely eleven. Ian gets them an umbrella and some chairs from the rental shack, and they set everything up halfway down the beach--close enough to the water to feel comfortable leaving their shit alone but far enough away that the other beachgoers won’t be a constant bother.

Once done, they strip off their jackets, shoes, and T-shirts, and stretch out in the beach chairs.

“As you’re now officially my husband--” Ian starts, rolling his head toward Mickey, who squints at him. “At least in the eyes of the management of a semi-upscale hotel in Chicago, Illinois--I must inform you that you’re required to help me put on my sunblock.”

“Is there enough sunblock in the _world_ to keep you from burnin’ like a motherfucker?”

“That’s beside the point, Mickey. Excuse me. _Mr. Gallagher_.”

“And why the fuck am I ‘Mr. Gallagher?’ Why aren’t you ‘Mr. Milkovich?’”

 _Why are we even talking like this?_ is the better question, but Mickey’s having fun. Who the fuck cares about anything else?

Ian fumbles in his beach tote for a tube of SPF 50 sunblock and pops open the cap. “Do I look Russian?”

“Ukrainian, dick. And what does it matter? You’re talkin’ about bein’ my husband, not my brother.” Mickey holds out his hand for the sunblock, and Ian hands it to him before climbing out of his chair to sit on his knees between Mickey’s legs.

“Ian Milkovich sounds stupid.”

Mickey snorts and squirts a dollop of sunblock on his palm. “Milkovich is a cooler last name,” he argues, rubbing the lotion over Ian’s shoulders and back.

“Whatever. Mr. Gallagher.” Ian tilts his head backwards, resting it on the bit of chair between Mickey’s thighs, and gives him that closed-mouth grin that reminds him of that fuckin’ freckled kid in the Kash and Grab.

Mickey leans over and presses an upside-down kiss to his lips.

He gives him a little smack on the shoulder afterward. “Alright. Stand up so I can make sure you don’t turn into a fuckin’ tomato.”

\---

After Mickey’s slathered sunblock on literally every inch of Ian’s exposed skin, Ian does the same to him.

They then spend the next half hour stretched out in the shade of the umbrella while their sunblock absorbs, chatting aimlessly and enjoying the breeze and the gentle crash of waves against the shore.

“Wanna swim?” Ian asks during a lull in conversation.

Mickey raises an eyebrow. “Told you. I can’t.”

“Sure ya can. We won’t go out deep. Anyway, I gotta pee.”

Ian stands and holds out a hand, a sweet smile on his face that makes Mickey want to trust him with anything.

“Whatever, man,” he says, taking Ian’s hand and letting him tug him up.

\---

The water itself is much more pleasant than he’d thought it’d be. It’s cool, but not uncomfortably so, and he adjusts to it quickly.

He follows Ian out until the water’s just covering his pecs and then stands there while Ian snickers and swims out a little further to pee.

“If your warm spot gets to me, man, you’re dead.”

Ian holds up his middle finger as he treads water with his right hand and does his business.

He flips around for a minute afterward, showing off, then ducks down and swims underwater back to Mickey.

“Boo,” he says, popping up behind him and grabbing him around the waist. He kisses his cheek, getting the side of Mickey’s face wet.

Mickey turns in his arms and lets Ian hold on to him a little. Cautiously, he lifts his feet from the lake floor, bending his knees a bit to see if he’ll float.

“I gotcha,” Ian says sweetly, giving him a smile. “Want me to teach ya to swim?”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “I’m not four. I’ll figure it out on my own if I want.”

Ian shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He lets go of Mickey and sets off to swim laps for exercise like a goddamn dolphin.

Mickey stands there for a second, watching him, and then, thinking _what the hell_ , submerges himself completely in the water.

When he comes back up, he pushes his hair out of his eyes and does his best attempt at treading water, even though he’s only in about four and a half feet of it.

It feels nice, and it’s not too difficult, and after a few minutes, he finds that he can float on his back pretty easily. He stretches out, and he lets the gentle lake waves bounce him around, and he stares at the incredible sight of [the Chicago skyline](https://i.ibb.co/7XFLRbc/chicago-skyline-from-north-avenue-beach-alan-klehr.jpg), thinking about his life.

And really, what a fuckin’ year he’s had.

Ian swims back to him after about ten minutes. He’s out of breath from swimming laps, and his face is red.

Mickey grabs him by the shoulders and dunks him, and Ian just lets him, going limp and sinking with the gentlest of pushes.

When he pops up again, he has a devious look on his freckled face, and Mickey kicks away from him.

“Don’t you dare, bitch,” he says, trying to run away in five feet of water.

Ian makes an, “Eh, eh, eh” sound and launches after him, his height and his more advanced water coordination putting him at an advantage. 

“Swear to God, Gallagher,” Mickey starts, but he doesn’t get to finish. Ian ducks under, swims to him at shark-speed, and grabs him around the waist.

“Fucker!” is the last thing Mickey yells before he’s tugged down by the thighs, his legs completely slipping out beneath him until he’s in a sitting position near the lake floor.

Ian tickles him underwater, and Mickey squeals out bubbles and kicks at him, and finally, Ian grabs him around the waist and stands up, pulling him up with him.

“Fuckin’ hate you,” Mickey sputters, wiping his eyes with his left hand. He’s got his right arm wrapped around Ian’s back and his legs squeezed around his hips, and if they were out of the water, Ian’d be holding him.

“You dunked me first!” Ian complains, looking affronted.

“Yeah. I didn’t fuckin’ _wrestle_ you.”

“Ahh, boo-hoo.” Ian presses their foreheads together and snuffles a bit against his cheek. He gets his arms down and holds Mickey by the backs of his upper thighs, right under his ass. 

They’re in public, and there are probably ten people in the water around them--close enough to impact their physical privacy but far enough away that they feel they can talk quietly and not be heard.

“Wish I could fuck you like this,” Ian whispers, punctuating the sentence with a quick, cold-mouthed kiss to Mickey’s lips.

Mickey thinks about it--Ian holding him in the water and fucking up into him, using his body’s bouyancy to easily bounce him on his cock. It’s appealing, and it makes his belly twist. He squeezes around Ian’s ribcage in response.

Ian drops him after a minute, gently sliding his legs off his hips, and the two of them float on their backs for a while, holding hands across the water like a fuckin’ otter couple.

“I do wanna teach you to swim one day,” Ian says at one point, pulling Mickey in by the arm until their shoulders bump. “I’m gonna add it to my list.”

“Why do I need to know how to swim?”

“So we can swim together in Mexico.”

A future together. Us. We. Our.

Mickey squeezes Ian’s hand.

\---

They get Chicago dogs and fries for lunch from a little joint just off the beach and carry them back to their spot.

Ian puts on the “Summer Hits” Spotify playlist low on his phone, and he and Mickey sit on beach towels in the sun, eating and talking and slurping two huge frozen lemonades. 

When they’re done, they hang out for a bit while their food digests and then head back into the water.

The more Mickey floats around, the more he loves it.

Ian’s energetic after the sugar in the lemonade, and he turns into a goddamn puppy, grabbing at Mickey, splashing him, and trying to carry him around.

“Alright, alright,” Mickey says to Ian’s repeated insistence that he climb on his back.

He gets his arms around Ian’s neck from behind, hooks his legs around his waist, and holds on as Ian walks them until he’s in up to his chin. Then, in a move Mickey could’ve predicted a mile away, Ian grabs him by the thighs, jumps as high as he can with 150 lbs on his back, and dunks them. 

And well, once they’re under, Mickey figures he can have fun, too. He digs his fingers into any part of Ian he can reach, tickling him within an inch of his life.

He hears a bubbly scream under the water, and then he’s being grabbed and wrestled and tickled, and somehow it all ends with his shorts pulled halfway down his thighs.

“Motherfucker!” Mickey complains once he surfaces, pulling his shorts back up and doing his best to leap back onto Ian, who’s laughing and freckly and beautiful.

Ian sort of catches him mid-attack, and in a sudden change of mood, wraps his arms around his waist affectionately and holds him up enough so that his face is above the water.

Mickey struggles against him for a minute and squeezes his knees around his waist, trying to pull him under, but Ian just holds on. 

Eventually, with a sigh, Mickey gives up and decides to kiss him, instead. He gets his right arm around Ian’s neck and pulls him down, and their lips are cold and tongues are warm, and Mickey can taste tangy lake water and sugary frozen lemonade and the gentleness of care.

When the kiss ends, Ian still holds Mickey, hands at the backs of his thighs, and Mickey thinks, _fuck it, fuck it all_ because he likes this, and he loves him, and the city looks ridiculously beautiful from where they’re standing.

He rests his cheek against Ian’s shoulder, wraps his arms around his torso, and lets himself be held. 

Lets himself feel good and loved and safe in his boyfriend’s arms.

\---

They float around for a while afterward, Mickey even letting Ian drag him into deeper water so he can practice treading, and then, with a last kiss on the cheek, they head back to their spot on the beach.

After chugging an unholy amount of water, swimming having made them thirsty as fuck, they stretch out on their backs and let the sun dry their hair and trunks.

Mickey tilts his head and watches Ian for a few minutes. Watches him fuck around on his phone, re-playing that [“Stunnin’”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lazP-yhsyp4) song in the “Summer Hits” playlist because he’s into it, and then scrolling through Instagram.

He hasn’t seen him on kestrel at all over the past three days, and Mickey wonders if he’s taken the time off. He knows he could ask but well, he fuckin’ hates talking about it. 

It’s always a circular conversation in which Ian asks Mickey if he’s still comfortable with it and tells him he’ll quit if he’s not, and then Mickey assures him it’s fine, and then things get awkward for about fifteen minutes before they ease more comfortably into another conversation. Over and over again.

Mickey knows he could just not lie about it for once and solve the issue, but he can’t stand the idea of Ian losing out on money when he seems to be okay doin’ his thing. He knows Ian has goals and shit, and he knows he may not ever say anything about it, but he knows he also has thoughts of two point five American Dream kids and vacations and an SUV parked in front of a house with a driveway.

Mickey wants him to have those things. And cutting him out of about five-hundred dollars a month’s a big deal when he’s only making thirty-five thousand a year pre-taxes and is attempting to keep up with increasing rent costs, pitching in to the Gallagher fund to help Debbie with the kids, and paying for utilities and food and credit card bills.

It wouldn’t be fair of him.

So he doesn’t ask, even though he wonders. Instead, he watches Ian type a comment on Tami’s picture of Freddie.

“Hey,” Ian says once he’s done, flipping over to the camera. He holds up his phone and toggles the 0.5x zoom so they both fit in.

They’re lying on their backs on two tropical-patterned towels, and Ian’s cheeks and shoulders are pink with the beginnings of sunburn. Their hair’s a little wild, only in the beginning states of being sun-dried in breezy air, but the lighting’s nice, and Mickey actually gives in and smiles when Ian pokes at him.

Ian takes several pictures and then sets in to choose the best to post to Instagram.

He hands Mickey his phone before he makes the post.

It’s a good picture, actually, and he’s put on the Hudson filter, which has given the edges a slight vignette effect and has made their skin bright and Mickey’s eyes look extra blue.

“Yeah, it’s good,” Mickey says after a minute, making to hand the phone back.

Ian raises his eyebrow at him. “Did you read the caption?”

Mickey glances at it.

_Summer lovin’. ❤️️_

“That okay to post?”

Mickey can feel his face burn up with a flush, but he shrugs. “No, but just ‘cause it’s dumb.”

Ian smacks him. “I’m postin’ it.”

“Whatever.” Mickey yawns, stretches out, and closes his eyes.

All in all, life’s pretty fuckin’ good.

\---  
\---

They couldn’t have been out for more than an hour, as the sun’s still in relatively the same position in the sky, but the next time Mickey’s conscious after Ian posts their picture on Instagram is when Ian’s shaking him roughly and saying, “We’re _fucked_.”

“ _What_?” Mickey groans, the summer sun and general beachy lethargy making him just want to roll over and pass out.

“We didn’t reapply after swimming.”

It sounds like Ian’s speaking Greek. Mickey rubs at his eyes. “The fuck?”

He sits up and finds Ian sitting by him in the sand, his beach towel draped over his head and shoulders for protection.

Mickey looks down at his own legs and notices he’s blotchy, and the skin of his face feels tight. _Goddammit_.

Together, they scramble under the umbrella.

It’s hard to tell how sunburned they actually are right now, but Ian’s already got rosy shoulders and a pink patch below his collarbone, and his forehead’s bright even in the shade. “We’re idiots,” he says, tossing his towel onto the ground and digging around in his tote bag for aloe gel.

Mickey hasn’t been sunburned since that one time he fell asleep on a rooftop when he was a teenager, and back then he just kind of sucked it up and dealt with it. But apparently, Ian’s a pro at sun-related skin shit, as he slathers them with aloe gel before they even leave the beach and then instructs Mickey to cover up with his towel like he’s a goddamn child.

He’s not hurting yet, but his skin feels tight, and his cheeks sting just a bit in direct sunlight.

They grab their shit and put on their shirts and shoes and head back to the hotel.

Ian looks like a dumbass on the ten-minute walk back, the towel draped over his head like he’s a fuckin’ ghost. 

“You’re bein’ a lil crazy there, Casper,” Mickey comments, unscrewing the cap on the bottle of water he’s carrying and taking a long drink.

“Try bein’ a ginger for a day, man. Forgettin’ to reapply sunblock’s a fuckin’ cardinal sin.”

Mickey smirks at him and gives him a playful kick in the ass. “Gonna get more freckles?”

“I’m gonna be like one giant freckle, Mickey.”

Not that Mickey actively wants Ian to be sunburned, but he’s sure as hell gonna enjoy the new freckles.

\---

When they arrive back at the hotel, Ian fishes their locker keys out of his tote bag and hands them over so Mickey can collect their bags while he checks them in.

He gets their shit and then hangs out at the pastry bar for a few minutes, scarfing down a chocolate-filled croissant and then wrapping another up in a napkin to bring to Ian ‘cause it’s really fuckin’ good.

Ian appears at the end of the hallway just as Mickey’s finishing up. He waves a packet of keycards and holds out a hand to take his bag from Mickey.

Apparently, Ian had initially reserved a normal-ass room somewhere on one of the middle floors, as the hotel isn’t exactly budget-friendly. But after his little _newlyweds_ stunt, probably complete with a little _poor us_ whining that Mickey didn’t get to hear, he’d got them upgraded to one of the luxury honeymoon suites near the top, just under the penthouses.

They’re on the fuckin’ _fortieth floor_ , and Mickey swears he has to yawn to pop his ears by the time the elevator reaches their stop.

“Okay,” Ian starts as they exit the elevator and make their way toward room 4004. “So, I went online like, the second you were out of my sight after we talked about porn last month.”

Mickey raises an eyebrow. 

“And I looked at like, every fuckin’ hotel in Chicago, and this one’s the best I could find.”

They reach the door, and Ian swipes the keycard and shoulders it open.

And well, _fuck_.

First, the room’s _massive_ , consisting of a full-sized bedroom and living room in open floor-plan, studio-apartment design style. To the left, just inside the door, is a bathroom that’s larger than the main room of Mickey’s apartment, with a huge, all-glass shower and a garden tub backed by floor-to-ceiling windows.

But the best part, and the reason that Mickey bites his lip, feeling a little overwhelmed and shaky, is that in the middle of the bedroom is a king-sized bed with crisp, white sheets, and all around are windows--the right wall windows looking out on the city and the center wall windows giving them a glimpse of North Avenue Beach, Lakeshore Drive, and miles of Lake Michigan in the distance.

“Fuck, Ian,” Mickey says, dropping his backpack by the door and walking over to the windows. 

“Do you like it?” Ian asks, coming up behind him and wrapping his arms around his waist. He leans his head over Mickey’s shoulder and rests their temples together.

Mickey maybe wants to cry a little, but he ain’t a pussy. He bites his lip for a second, peering out at the beach and lake in the distance--where they’d spent their day having a hell of a lot of fun in ways Mickey’s never had fun before--and then twists in Ian’s arms.

“Dork,” he says, pushing up on his tip-toes and pressing a soft, sweet kiss to Ian’s upper lip.

Ian looks puzzled for a second, but Mickey gets his arms around his torso and lets his mouth slip into a smile. He looks up at Ian’s rapidly-pinkening face--both from sunburn and a flush--and takes in how his freckles are already darkening and appear to have multiplied, those all-over freckles he vaguely remembers him having as a kid starting to peek out from where they’ve been hiding due to age-fade.

“You,” Mickey says, rubbing his fingers against Ian’s back. “Having us do our porn stuff this week.”

Ian grins, face lighting up like the goddamned _sun_. “It’s a big week for us.”

“Yeah.” Mickey presses his mouth to his throat, just above his adam’s apple.

“So, you like it?”

Mickey feels the vibration of his voice against his lips. “‘course I do,” he whispers, breath hot against Ian’s skin.

\---

They unpack their bags, tugging out comfortable lounge clothes and whatever they plan to wear the next day, and then Ian turns on the shower.

They’re both starting to feel the sunburn a little bit, and Ian has to turn the water on relatively cool in order to keep the sting at bay.

It’s a large shower, so they share, but this time, it isn’t about sex. It’s about getting sand out of their asscrack and from behind their ears and washing away the smell of the lake.

“Gonna fuck you in that tub later,” Ian says as they’re climbing out, tone of voice calm and cool as if he’s just told Mickey he’s gonna help him do his taxes.

Mickey twists and then whip-cracks his towel at Ian’s ass, which is looking whiter and whiter the pinker his skin gets.

“Guess I’ll let ya,” he says, stepping over to check out the basket on the edge of the tub. It’s filled with complimentary bath bombs along with a card explaining the effects of each.

“Why do rich people get all the free shit?” he asks, untwisting his towel and wiping himself down.

Ian shrugs and moves, butt-naked, into the main area of the hotel room. “I dunno, but clean out a bag, ‘cause we’re takin’ like, _aaaall_ the complimentary shit when we leave.”

They re-aloe themselves, then pull on boxers and T-shirts and flip on the 70-inch flat-screen mounted on the wall across from the bed.

At six, there’s a knock on the door, and Ian jumps up to let in a hot dude with a closely-trimmed beard who’s pushing a cart full of dishes on covered, silver platters.

It looks like something from fuckin’ _Home Alone 2_.

Mickey’s a little stunned as he watches the employee neatly arrange the dishes on the table by the windows in the living room and then finish the job by placing a champagne bucket in the center along with a vase containing a single red rose.

Ian tips him twenty bucks, and when he’s gone, Mickey just stares at him, open-mouthed.

“Happy birthday,” Ian says, waving his hand toward the table.

\---

There’s no question that they’re just two former poor-as-shit Southside boys when they sit in their wash-worn boxers and T-shirts with seam-holes and scarf down most of the food.

There’s steak and herb-roasted chicken breasts and mashed potatoes. Then there’s the shrimp alfredo that makes the platter sweat and a basket of garlic bread. 

Ian and Mickey eat like they’re starved and talk with their mouths full throughout. They polish off the bottle of champagne. Well, _Mickey_ mostly polishes off the bottle of champagne, Ian primarily drinking water as he sips lightly at his single flute. And when they’re done, they share a tray of chocolate-covered strawberries.

“How much did this fuckin’ cost, man?” Mickey asks, covering Ian’s hand with his palm.

Ian shrugs. “Don’t worry about it.”

But he _does_ worry because there’s no way Ian hasn’t spent a couple hundred out of his own money _at least_ , even after dipping into the kestrel funds.

It’s a weird sensation, knowing somebody deliberately spent hard-earned money on him. Mickey isn’t accustomed to it, having grown up used to getting whatever shit was left over once everyone else had what they wanted.

“You shouldn’t’a done it,” he murmurs, leaning back in his chair.

Ian sets down the stem of the strawberry he’s been working on and places his other hand on top of Mickey’s, creating a sandwich.

“Your face when we walked in was worth every penny, man.”

Mickey stares at him, questioning with his eyes, and then turns his gaze on the pile of their hands in the center of the table.

“Thanks,” he whispers, sliding in his other hand and messing up the arrangement, twisting so he’s holding one of Ian’s hands in each of his. “Didn’t have to.”

Ian tilts his head to the side with a little shrug. “I love you. You’re my best friend.”

Mickey blows out a breath at that, his heart giving a rabbit-kick.

It took him a while to understand at first--to _believe_ , really--but Mickey knows there’s love here. He knows because he feels it, and he sees it, and he hears it in every word Ian says to him, every text he sends.

Every teasing comment when they’re being playful and every breathy sigh when they’re making love and every kind-voiced whisper when Mickey’s feeling nervous or unsure.

Ian _loves_ him. And he _knows_ it.

So that’s why it’s the second sentence that hits him the hardest. _You’re my best friend_.

Before idle daydreams of soft love and impossible, gentle things, Mickey was just a little boy who wanted a friend.

He wanted someone to laugh with, to wrestle with, to tease. He wanted someone with whom he could share secrets, maybe. Talk about life things. Growing up things. Terry things.

And now he’s got Ian.

He’s got somebody to tackle in Lake Michigan and to call a dork. Got somebody with whom he can watch Netflix and eat ice pops and talk about work drama. Somebody to convince him to climb up with him on a jungle gym so they can smoke cigarettes and talk about life.

_“I love you. You’re my best friend.”_

Mickey squeezes Ian’s hands. Tugs at him. Leans in and breathes his breath and presses his lips to his mouth--so soft, so slow.

\---

They’re mindful of their sunburn as their bodies come together, naked on the white-sheeted bed in a beautiful hotel room with windows overlooking the lake.

It’s only seven, so it’s still light and bright, the sun casting a golden glow on their bodies. Catching Ian’s hair and turning it to flames.

They kiss endlessly--slow sips of kisses that turn to open-mouthed sucks and pants. Ian’s got his fingers laced through Mickey’s--has their arms stretched upward, pressed into the pillows.

Mickey feels the hair at Ian’s pits against the undersides of his arms, feels the sunburned, unnatural heat of his belly catch against his own in a slight stinging friction.

He feels his cock--soft at first but steadily growing in stiffness--touch at his thigh and his balls and his own cock as Ian shifts against him, adjusts their bodies like a key twisted into a lock. Click. Perfect fit.

Mickey wants to whisper, _I’m gonna love you forever_ and _You’re everything I’ve ever fuckin’ wanted_ against his mouth, wants to pull him against him and inside him and never let him go.

He closes his eyes as Ian trails his mouth down his body, careful, careful, warm tongue hot and stinging against his sunburn.

And when he takes his cock in his mouth, sucking him soft and slow like he’s got all night, Mickey arches his back and takes Ian by the hair and thinks about how love can make sex feel like care.

“Want on top?” Ian asks after several minutes, smearing wet lips up Mickey’s torso, up his sternum, pausing at his neck to nibble just below his ear.

Mickey chuckles because this is it, right? This is _make love boyfriend hotel_.

This is the shadily-upgraded honeymoon suite, and this is his beautiful, freckly boyfriend, and this is the love they’re creating with their heated, sunburned bodies.

Mickey twists around and climbs on top, stretching himself out over Ian and placing sweet, wet sucks to his mouth.

Ian leans over and takes the lube from the nightstand, and he fingers Mickey open from beneath him, using his left hand to pull him apart and his right to slide in, slippery fingers touching at and catching on his rim before plunging in gently, thrusting slowly, letting Mickey kiss him and rock against him and love him with his body and his mouth.

And when he’s ready, Mickey sits up, straddling Ian’s waist, and takes Ian’s lube-slicked cock in hand. He pushes up on his knees and, guided by hands on his waist, lowers himself onto him with a sigh.

Ian blows out a breath as he does, and Mickey gently touches his hands to Ian’s sunburned-blotchy chest and begins to rock.

It’s quiet in the room, making the slick sounds of their lovemaking seem loud and obvious, and Mickey closes his eyes and listens and feels and pets his thumbs against the hair under his hands in loving little strokes.

“ _Fuck_ , Mickey,” Ian whispers, sliding his hands from his waist to his ass, pulling him back and forth on him, using the weight of his body to help him shift his own hips in counterpoint, creating a delicious, dragging friction that makes Mickey bite his lip and breathe harshly out his nose.

Mickey’s belly squeezes, that romance-arousal squeeze that makes him speed up his hips, makes him whisper, “ _God_ , Ian, you feel so fuckin’ good.” Makes him look down for a second at his cock, which is bouncing lightly against Ian’s belly, tapping out little press-marks of pre-come against his sun-pink skin.

And he’d always known _make love boyfriend hotel_ might one day be a reality, if only because Ian’s a loving dumbass who likes being sweet when he can, but he’d imagined over the past few weeks that it would come in the form of a hard, teasing fuck that would get him off and make him scream.

He’d never considered the emotions. Never thought about what love can be like sometimes, and how it can feel, and how slowly riding his boyfriend on a white-sheeted bed with the sun’s warm glow illuminating every surface around them could be the most intimate, erotic thing he’s ever experienced.

Could be something he knows he’ll think about **forever, forever, forever**.

\---

After several minutes, Ian shifts around, wiggling restlessly, and Mickey pushes up on his knees so he can sit up. The two of them then scoot backward until Ian’s back is against the headboard.

Mickey lowers himself back onto him and locks his arms around his neck, and they fuck and they love and they kiss until they can hardly breathe.

“Gonna come, Mickey,” Ian whispers, and Mickey feels him trail his fingers down to play at his rim, feeling Mickey stretched around his cock. Probably feeling the slip of wetness and lube.

Mickey buries his face in his neck and moves harder, faster.

Ian gets his right hand on Mickey’s cock and starts to stroke him in time with Mickey’s bouncing rocks, and within seconds, they’re groaning and panting hot breaths into the space between them, at the edge, at the edge, at the edge.

“Come inside me,” Mickey whispers, voice barely more than a hot breath against Ian’s mouth.

Ian pants, “Fuck, fuck,” and wraps his left arm tightly around Mickey’s waist, using all his strength to move him against him harder, harder. “Fuck, I’m coming. _Oh_ , fuck.”

Mickey feels him let go--feels the hot beats of his come inside him and slipping out of him with each upward twist of Ian’s hips--and it’s enough to send him over, as well.

He dips his head and bites at Ian’s shoulder, and he comes harder than he can ever remember coming before, his entire body like a lit match, burning up from the inside out.

It’s the angle, probably, but it’s the wettest he’s ever felt afterward, Ian’s come easily dripping back out due to gravity.

He feels Ian’s fingers there again, playing in the mess, and Mickey lifts his head and kisses him and kisses him and thinks those sentences again, has those wants again.

 _I’m gonna love you forever._

_You’re everything I’ve ever fuckin’ wanted._

\---  
\---

It’s probably pretty disgusting, but Mickey thinks Ian’s cock after fucking him this way is the sexiest thing he’s ever seen. He’s got come in his pubes and a thick ring of it at the base, and Mickey flushes and feels hot all over again when he thinks about how it only looks like that because he was riding him--because Ian came inside him and it slid back out again.

“Go run that bath. You’re gross,” Mickey lies, pulling him in for a deep kiss that betrays every word he’s just said.

“Gross, huh?” Ian teases, pressing on Mickey’s chest until he lies back and he can climb over him. He kisses his lips and his cheeks and his forehead.

“Disgusting.”

“Fuckin’ filthy, right?”

Mickey laughs breathily in his face and calls him a dork. “Alright, alright. Get off me.”

Ian does run the bath, and after reading through the little bath bomb card, Mickey tosses in an oatmeal and chamomile one that’s supposed to soothe irritated skin.

They keep the water temperature down due to their sunburn, making the bath more like a slightly heated swimming pool than a hot, bubbly place to soak. 

They’re getting redder and redder as the hours pass, and already, Ian’s bright pink all over except for where his boardshorts rested. He looks fucking ridiculous, the skin between his lower hips and his kneecaps pale as a sheet.

Mickey’s more blotchy than all-over fried like Ian. He has a pink patch on his chest, belly, and shoulders, and just the apples of his cheeks and bridge of his nose are red. His legs, for the most part, are fairly okay, and he only has a band of burn around his thighs that looks like it’ll fade quickly.

“You’re gonna look like you’re wearin’ white boxers in the morning, man,” Mickey says, stepping into the bath and sinking in with a sigh.

Ian flips him off and then climbs in on the other side of the tub, stretching out with his arms draped over the edge behind him.

They soak for a while in peace and quiet, watching through the floor-to-ceiling windows as Chicago slowly darkens, the sky going pink and soft at day’s end and lights beginning to flicker on in the surrounding buildings.

“Y’ever think--when you were like, a kid--that you’d be somewhere like this?” Ian asks, sliding his feet over to rest in Mickey’s lap.

Mickey shrugs, taking one of the feet and starting up a squeezing massage. “When I was a fuckin’ kid? How about a year ago?”

Ian looks thoughtful for a second before nodding. He reaches up to the light switch on the wall near the tub and flips them at random until the bathroom is dark save for one light. It casts the room in a subtle glow, as if it were illuminated only by candles.

“What about you?” Mickey asks, getting his own feet up in Ian’s lap. “Didja have dreams of bein’ like, rich and shit?”

“Mm. Not really.” Ian plays with Mickey’s toes, giving each a little wiggle. “Always wanted to get out, y’know.” He shrugs. “Then there was the military thing, and my bipolar, and… I dunno. Lost my purpose for a while.”

“Got it now, though?” Mickey asks, moving his hands to Ian’s fuzzy ankles.

“Yeah. It was touch-and-go for a while, but. I dunno. I love being an EMT--love helping people, y’know?--and I love...you, and um.” He looks sheepish for a minute, eyes flitting away toward the window. “Things are really good for me right now.”

Mickey nods. Runs his fingers over the bones of Ian’s ankles in soothing strokes. “Things are really good for me, too.”

\---

They stay in the tub for nearly an hour--until the sky is completely dark and until the water is actually cold but somehow even more soothing on their skin in that state.

At one point, Ian gets Mickey bent over the edge of the tub, gripping the edges, while he thrusts into him from behind in rhythmic little pushes that make Mickey sigh. Because their body temperature has gone down due to the cold water, when Ian comes, it’s shockingly hot inside Mickey and running down him as a bit escapes toward the end. Mickey laughs through his own orgasm, enjoying the blooming heat and the firm squeeze of Ian’s arms around his chest.

By the time they’re ready to get out, Mickey’s leaned back against Ian’s chest, sitting in the V of his legs, and Ian’s rubbing idle circles on his belly and occasionally kissing at his cheek and jaw.

 _I’m gonna love you forever,_ Mickey thinks. _You’re everything I’ve ever fuckin’ wanted._

And then, as they’re climbing out of the bath and he’s looking at Ian’s glow-in-the-dark white ass and thighs, all he can think is, _I wanna live together._

\---

Ian bursts out laughing the next morning when he climbs out of bed and examines himself in the full-length mirror by the bed.

Mickey groans, body hot from the burn and skin feeling like it’s sticking to the sheets, and rolls to face him. “ _Fuck_ ,” he says through a yawn.

To say that Ian’s a little red would be like saying water’s a little wet. He looks like a fuckin’ _lobster_. Every inch of his skin is completely fried, with the exception of some patches on his back and the boardshorts area, which look like they’ve never seen the light of day.

“Mickey,” Ian says, voice soft and tinged with a laugh. “What the fuck am I gonna do?”

“I dunno, but you look fuckin’ insane, man.”

Ian bends over and laughs, but he also seems a little nervous and frantic. He grabs his phone off the nightstand before climbing back in bed, wincing every time his skin shifts against the sheets.

Mickey watches as he opens up the kestrel app and clicks over to his schedule.

“I’ve got a session tonight at eight,” he says, pointing at the appointment marker-- _Bobby, mutual mast., full nudity_.

He wasn’t expecting it, and the whole thing came at him so fast, Ian opening up the app at lightning speed, that it feels like Mickey’s been hit in the face by a baseball.

He breathes out a slow stream of air through pursed lips, heart pounding.

And _goddammit_ , he fucking _hates_ this shit.

“Sorry! Fuck,” Ian says, closing out the app and dropping the phone onto the blankets. He chuckles and wipes his hands across his face before wincing, having forgotten his burn. “I wasn’t gonna talk about it. I know it’s weird or whatever.”

Mickey bites his lip. 

It’s the perfect opportunity.

_Quit the app. Quit the app. Quit the motherfucking app._

He releases his lip and shrugs. “Whatever, man. I don’t care.”

Ian watches his face for a second, looking thoughtful, eyes soft. 

“Can you cancel it?” Mickey asks, twisting onto his side.

Ian’s quiet for a moment, still staring into his eyes, before murmuring, “Yeah.” He nods, seeming distracted, and grabs up his phone again. “Lemme cancel.”

Mickey leans his head on Ian’s shoulder and watches him pull the app back up, cancel the appointment, and send an IM to Bobby from the kestrel client.

_Hi Bobby. Apologies, but I need to cancel our appointment tonight due to a family emergency. Please reschedule at your convenience. ~Ian_

“Family emergency, huh?” Mickey asks, watching Ian click over to his schedule and block off the next three days, marking them “Out of Service” for drop-down box reason “Emergency - Death in Family.”

Ian shrugs the shoulder Mickey’s resting his head on. “Always works.”

Bobby responds before Ian has a chance to close the app:

_Ok thx but will u send me pix of ur fat cock instead? Hard pls thx_

“Are you kidding me?” Mickey grumbles, carefully keeping his voice to that of amused annoyance while he wants so badly to commit murder. His heart pounds, and he feels blood start to rush through his veins, creating a _woosh_ ing sound in his ears.

“Hard, please. Thanks!” Ian mocks in a faux-cheery voice. He snorts and closes out of the app.

“Gonna send him ‘pics of your fat cock?’”

Ian takes a deep breath and shrugs. “Just took some days off, so I’m not on the clock again ‘til Wednesday at seven. I’m not even gonna look at the app ‘til then.”

Mickey watches him, gaze going from eye to eye. He breathes, breathes, getting his heart and his blood under control.

He wants to kill fuckin’ Bobby.

He doesn’t want anybody else to see Ian’s cock ever again. Because he’s _gonna love_ Ian _forever_ and he’s _everything_ Mickey’s _ever fuckin’ wanted_ and he wants them to _live together_ and only see each other naked for the rest of their fuckin’ lives.

And that sounds ridiculous, and it sounds stupid, and it makes Mickey’s cheeks flush at the mere idea that he’s having those thoughts. They’re in their twenties, still, and life’s long and there’s a lot of sex to have, but Mickey doesn’t even know where or how to go forward if it isn’t with Ian by his side.

He’d live, but he doesn’t want to.

He’d deal with Ian showing his cock to kestrel guys, but he doesn’t want to.

He runs his hand over his face.

“Do you like doin’ this shit?” he asks, voice soft, measured, controlled, thank fuck.

Mickey’s asked Ian this before, and he’s always gotten the canned answer, the _I don’t love it, but it’s an easy way to make money._

This time, Ian looks at him. Presses his lips into a straight line. Shrugs. “I dunno,” he says, and something about it makes Mickey’s stomach warm.

\---  
\---

They order room service breakfast to be delivered at ten and throw on tank tops and jeans after slathering each other down with aloe gel.

“Can we please talk about how you have just a few red patches and some pink on your face and I look like I’ve got fuckin’ chemical burns all over my entire body?”

“Fuckin’ gingers, man,” Mickey teases, moving into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

\---

Ian wasn’t lying about them cleaning out the place. After breakfast, they grab one of the plastic dirty laundry bags supplied by the hotel and fill it full of all the free shit they can find: the bath bombs, shampoo, soap, coffee, tea bags, Stevia packets, plus the box of caramel chocolates with the card reading, _Congratulations, newlyweds!_

Mickey packs up their breakfast leftovers in a styrofoam to-go box that came with their room service, and then, as the hour ticks closer to check-out, the two of them flop backward on the white-sheeted bed and share a cigarette.

“It’s a non-smoking room,” Ian notes, taking a drag. “We’re gonna get fined.”

“What-the-fuck-ever. It’s one cigarette.”

After they’re finished, Ian laces their fingers together and holds them against his belly.

“So,” he says, giving Mickey’s hand a squeeze. “Pretty okay?”

Mickey rolls toward him and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Pretty okay, man.”

 _I’m gonna love you forever_. 

\---  
\---

Jovi’s happy to see them when they get home. He comes bounding into the living room and does his _brrr_ trill while rubbing compulsively back and forth against their ankles, winding through them like a slalom skater.

“What’s up, Joves?” Ian asks, dropping his bags by the door and bending to pick up the cat. He flips him onto his back and holds him like a baby, bending his head to let Jovi purr loudly and rub his cheeks against him. “Missed your dads, huh?”

Ian gives Mickey a wink at that and carries the cat into the kitchen to change out his food.

 _Goddammit_ , Gallagher.

They hang out for the rest of the day, finishing up their breakfast leftovers for lunch, getting stupidly engrossed in a serial killer documentary on Netflix, and then at a little after four, going down to help Mrs. C. set up the new Amazon Echo her “wayward daughter” had shipped her from Cincinnati.

“Alexa, play ‘Pony’ by Ginuwine,” Mickey jokes on their way out, and Ian has to yell, “Alexa, stop!” before she has a chance to start it.

“If you ever fuckin’ do that…” Ian threatens on the way upstairs, wrapping his arms around Mickey’s back and giving him a teasing, crushing squeeze.

“If I ever fuckin’ do that, what?”

“I’ll probably throw you out the window or something. I dunno.”

“Defenestrate,” Mickey says, unlocking his door. He remembers it from eighth grade English class because Luke McCarthy, after being called to the board against his will to write a vocabulary sentence, had written, _I will defenestrate Mr. Hanson if he doesn’t shut the fuck up._

“Sexy. I love a man who knows big words.”

Mickey flips him off and shoulders open the door, only to be tackled over the threshold and against the wall.

He considers teasingly tackling him back, flipping and shoving him against the closed door, but then Ian drops to his knees and starts working on opening his jeans, and Mickey loses his train of thought.

\---

Spending three days and nights in a row together--a record for them--has spoiled Mickey already.

By six o’clock on Sunday night, when Ian’s sitting beside him on the couch, texting him the pictures he took throughout their weekend, he almost can’t bear the thought of sleeping without him when he eventually goes home. 

He doesn’t have to be around him every second--thinks they’d definitely get on each other’s nerves after a while--but he loves the assurance of having him there at night. Of being able to sleep beside him, hear him breathe.

Of watching late-night TV, talking to him about stupid shit, and sharing his salt and vinegar chips with him so he doesn’t end up eating the entire bag on his own.

It’s little shit like that. Getting a beer out of the fridge and hearing Ian flushing the toilet in the bathroom. Fucking around on his phone and being able to call out, “Hey, what’s that 80s movie with the giant white dog thing?” 

Being able to in-person comment on the pictures he sends through.

“Look how cute we were before the sun tried to kill us,” Ian comments wryly, referring to a picture he took of them sitting in the beach chairs under the umbrella.

Mickey rolls his eyes but saves the picture to his camera roll.

\---

He gets up off the couch a few minutes later and starts making his way toward the bedroom to change into more comfortable clothing.

“You need some boxers or somethin’?” he calls to Ian, stripping off his black tank top.

“Nah, man. Probably gonna head home in a bit.”

Mickey pauses with his hands on his zipper. And there’s no one around to see, but he sniffs once and shrugs, schooling his expression, anyway. “Whatever ya wanna do.”

Ian’s voice gets louder and louder as he walks down the hall toward Mickey’s room, saying, “Thought I’d get outta your hair. You’re probably tired of me by now.”

Mickey considers playing it off as a joke. _Yeah, you’re fuckin’ annoying, man._ He considers going with nonchalant, with, _Do whatever you want. I don’t give a fuck._

But well, he doesn’t say either of those things because his brain feels a little foggy, because he’s thinking about not having Ian beside him in bed, and he’s thinking about how he’s _gonna love_ Ian _forever_ , and he’s _everything_ Mickey’s _ever fuckin’ wanted_ , and how he wants them to _live together_ and how he wants him to _**quit the motherfucking app, goddammit**_.

What he says is,

“Look, man. Stay tonight. Stay fuckin’ forever or whatever if you want.”

He doesn’t look at him as he says it, instead focusing on unbuttoning his jeans, but he can tell by the absolute silence in the room that Ian’s staring at him.

“Yeah,” Ian suddenly says after nearly a full minute.

By then, Mickey’s got his jeans off and is standing in just his boxers. He takes a deep breath and looks up at him.

“Yeah, okay,” Ian repeats, nodding, one side of his face pulling back in a smile. “Yeah.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows at him and crosses his arms over his chest because he suddenly feels a little naked. 

“I do need to run back for a bit, though,” he says, thumbing in the general direction of the door. “I work tomorrow, and I need to pick something up, so.”

Mickey nods and hugs his arms to himself.

“But I’ll be back? And I’ll get Chinese?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

Mickey nods.

And it’s awkward as fuck, and Mickey’s standing there in his boxers while Ian’s fully clothed, and suddenly they’re laughing, and Ian’s taking three steps forward and bending to kiss his mouth.

Mickey smiles against his lips.

\---

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Ian (7:22 PM):** While I’m waiting on the food, I just want to clarify: Did you ask me to move in with you?

\-------------------------------------------------------

Ian’s been gone for fifty minutes at this point, and Mickey’s stretched out on his bed, having never made it back out of the bedroom after saying what he said.

He smiles and puts his thumbs to the keyboard.

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (7:23 PM):** If you want

 **Ian (7:23 PM):** Of course.

 **Ian (7:23 PM):** I mean, I’ve sorta been hinting at wanting to. 😎

 **Mickey (7:24 PM):** 🖕

 **Ian (7:25 PM):** My lease is up in November, so I won’t be officially free until then, but we can maybe use that time to talk about what furniture and shit of mine we want?

 **Ian (7:25 PM):** And obviously, I’ll pay half the rent when I move in.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Mickey just watches him send text after text, and there’s such a sense of calm washing over him in that moment that he doesn’t even know how to respond, really. He just bites his lip, and he smiles around it, and when Jovi hops up and cuddles against his neck, he rubs at his ears and revels in his rhythmic purrs.

And all he can think about is how half his rent’s $250, and that’s saving Ian $650 per month, and that’s more than he’s making on the fucking app.

He sighs, and he tap-tap-taps his fingers against the sides of his phone, and he considers texting it. Considers typing, _You can quit the app, man._

But he doesn’t.

He sniffs, and he pets Jovi’s head, and he says

\-------------------------------------------------------

 **Mickey (7:27 PM):** Your furniture’s better looking than mine overall

\-------------------------------------------------------

While Ian waits for the food to be ready, they make casual plans to move him in bit by bit, and though not everything’s yet resolved, Mickey feels like he’s floating.

\---  
\---

They’re shy around each other for a bit when Ian returns, overnight bag apparently replenished with clean clothes.

He changes into a white T-shirt and his gray sweats with the pockets, and the two of them eat take-out Chinese at the kitchen table while Ian posts a photoset on Instagram with the caption, _That One Time the Sun Tried to Kill Us_.

Mickey rolls his eyes at it when his phone vibrates with the post notification, and--right in front of Ian, while the two of them have their mouths full of lo mein--comments, _*You_.

“Is this what I’m dealin’ with for the rest of my life?” Ian asks, replying to Mickey’s comment with 🖕.

Mickey’s heart gives a kick at that. _The rest of his fuckin’ life_.

“Yeah,” he pushes out, stabbing a piece of sesame chicken. “Got a problem with that?”

Ian smiles at the deliberate use of his own line. “Not one.”

\---

After a peaceful night in, they both take two Advil to help with the inflammation of their skin, slather on some orange-scented aloe lotion Ian had brought back from his place, and climb into bed.

They don’t have sex because well, they kinda hurt--even Mickey, though he tries to play it off in the spirit of presenting Ian as the ultimate pale bitch--but they spoon the best they can. 

Ian presses a warm kiss to Mickey’s shoulder, and Mickey feels like the whole puzzle of his life’s starting to click into place.

\---  
\---

They hurt like hell the next morning.

“How the fuck am I supposed to save lives today, Mickey?” Ian asks, groaning as he struggles to sit up. “Oh my God.”

Mickey rubs his palms over his eyes, mindful of the burn across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. “What fuckin’ time is it?” It feels early. He turns his head and squints at the clock and finds it’s barely past five. “Why’re we awake? Go back to sleep.”

“It’s your birthday. I can’t go back to sleep, and neither can you.”

“For my birthday, I wanna sleep until seven, please.”

“But if you sleep until seven, you can’t consent to your birthday blowjob.” Ian, with a pained groan, ever so gently drapes himself over Mickey’s chest, careful to miss his red spots. “It was gonna be a birthday _fuck_ , but I think my skin might fall off if I touch you too much.”

Mickey closes his eyes and smirks. “I give you permission to blow me in my sleep.”

“Nope.” Ian leans in and kisses his mouth. “And I’ve gotta give you your present.”

Mickey cracks open an eye at that and sighs. “You literally just paid like five hundred dollars for me over the past couple days. I don’t need another present, man.”

“You _desperately_ need the present I’m about to give you.” He sits up, hissing when his skin pulls a certain way, and slowly climbs out of bed. “That sounds dirty, but it’s actually not.”

Well, now Mickey’s curious. With a struggle, he pushes up into a seated position, criss-crosses his legs, and watches Ian unzip his overnight bag and pull out a rectangular object wrapped in black tissue paper.

So this was the _work thing_ he needed to pick up. Sneaky motherfucker.

“What is it?” Mickey asks, taking it when Ian hands it to him.

“Open it and see.” Ian sits on the edge of the bed, and he looks shy, lips pursed and eyes flitting back and forth, from Mickey to the present to somewhere on the wall.

“It’s really fuckin’ cheesy, and I know that, so like, don’t pretend you think it’s like, _profound_ or something. ‘cause it’s not, and I know, and--”

“Ian, shut the fuck up,” Mickey interrupts, tearing open the present.

“Lemme explain it before you say anything,” Ian murmurs, scooting closer so he can get a good look at the gift.

It’s a small, framed color print-out of a screenshot taken during FaceTime. Mickey’s smiling with his teeth showing, and there’s a glint in his eye like they’re joking around. Ian’s in the top corner, smiling fondly.

“I gotta be honest. I don’t _actually_ know what we were talking about here. It was just some like, random night a couple months ago, and we were talking, and I think we probably had FaceTime sex or something.” He pauses, clearly nervous and realizing he’s rambling like a motherfucker. “And I remember that I just looked at you in that moment, right there.”

He taps his nail against the picture of Mickey’s smiling face.

“And I knew that I loved you.” 

He bites his lip and cuts his eyes to Mickey, who’s staring at him now, mouth open, stunned. 

“So I took a screenshot.”

Mickey feels his eyes fill, and he fucking hates it. Fucking hates crying. He turns to the side and presses his palm against his eyes--one at a time--and then turns back to Ian once he’s under control.

“Will you say something?” Ian whispers, mouth dropping open to match Mickey’s.

Mickey doesn’t say anything.

But he kisses him.

He sets down the frame, and he leans in, taking Ian by the sides of his face--gentle, gentle--and he presses their mouths together in a kiss that he feels in his heart, his belly, his toes.

Ian holds his hands in the air for a moment before tentatively placing them on Mickey’s face, and he presses in, in, and it’s love, and it’s heat, and it’s 

_the rest of their fuckin’ lives_.

“I love you,” Mickey whispers against Ian’s mouth, giving him another smear of a kiss. “Fuckin’ love you.”

“kestrel’s a hellscape,” Ian says, touching their foreheads together after their lips have parted. “But it gave me you.” He chuckles for a minute. Presses his lips to the tip of Mickey’s nose. “Holy fuck. Like, d’you ever think about it?”

Yeah, he does. _All the time_. He thinks about how he only joined kestrel on a whim. How it’s nothing he’d normally do. How his entire world has shifted on its axis because of one curious click on a porn site.

Because of one dorky, sweet motherfucker who was patient with him, who was willing to go at his pace, who was willing to care about Mickey Milkovich, son of Terry Milkovich, dirty-faced, FUCK U-UP knuckled, in-and-out of juvie, drug-running, high school dropout, kick your ass as soon as speak to you, lowlife piece of Southside trash who had no fucking idea what he was walking into when he clicked that banner all those months ago.

Mickey drags his mouth against Ian’s lips once, twice, and then pulls back.

He studies his face for a moment, takes in the freckles _all over_ his skin, now, and quirks his mouth in a smile.

And, after taking a deep breath, says, “Quit the fuckin’ app, man.”

Mickey blows out the breath and braces himself. And it’s not like he thinks Ian’s gonna blow up at him or get pissed at all, really, because he knows he’s not crazy about it, himself.

But what he doesn’t expect is for Ian to smile, this closed-mouth, fifteen-year-old in the Kash and Grab smile and, narrowing his eyes a little, say, “I sorta, maybe already did?”

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “What? When?”

“Last night.” He shrugs and, after staring at Mickey for a second, smiles and runs his fingers through the side of his hair. “I knew you weren’t into it. I know your breathing. You wanted to kill Bobby.”

He definitely wanted to kill Bobby.

Mickey considers denying it--considers acting all cool and collected--but he just nods, instead, because _fuck_ , this is Ian, and this is _the rest of their fuckin’ lives_. “Sue me for not bein’ into gross old pervs wantin' pictures of my boyfriend’s cock.”

Ian grins and presses an affectionate kiss to the bridge of his nose. “I knew you probably weren’t gonna say anything,” he says when he pulls back. “You love me, and you want me to make money. I know that.” He shrugs a little and looks Mickey in the eye. “I just want us both to be comfortable in our relationship, and the app's a pain in the ass. So when I went back to my place last night, I submitted my information to stop all services. Still waitin’ on everything to go through, but yeah. I’m done.”

“You can still save your money since you’ll only be payin’ like $250 in rent, now,” Mickey interjects, feeling like he needs to give Ian more reasons to feel good about his decision.

“Yeah,” he replies, placing a gentle hand on Mickey’s shoulder. “And y’know. Now I have something real to save my money for.”

“‘American Dream’ shit?”

“‘Us’ shit.”

 _Fuck_ , he loves him.

Mickey takes him by the back of the neck, pulls him in, and thinks about _the rest of their lives_.

\---  
\---

At one point in his life, Mickey didn’t know if he’d ever make it to twenty, let alone twenty-seven.

At sixteen, he thought the life he so desperately desired was impossible, was meant for other boys from other families with other people they wanted to love.

He thought he might be lonely forever, would hate himself forever, would exist amongst no positive sense of that word. Would never have a forever that involved love, that meant _the rest of his life_ , that was stable and solid and made his heart feel whole.

But on the night of his twenty-seventh birthday, he stands in Mrs. Callaghan’s kitchen, and he blows out the candles on a cake she baked for him because she loves him. He feels a warm kiss on his temple from the ridiculous, sunburned ginger that’s _in love_ with him, that’s gonna _live with him_ , that wants a life with him.

And Mickey’s _gonna love him **forever**._

“Okay, smile,” Ian says, turning around and holding out his phone.

Mickey and Mrs. C. squeeze in beside him, and whatever, man, Mickey smiles, not even attempting to pull his badass face.

He smiles because he’s happy, and because he feels love, and because he’s coming to realize that it’s okay to feel soft emotions because they’re a part of being alive.

And fuck, he wants to be alive.

“That sunburn made you the cutest, freckliest motherfucker, Mickey,” Ian says several minutes later, when Mrs. Callaghan has Alexa playing [“Wouldn’t It Be Nice?”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nZBKFoeDKJo) and all goddamn _three_ of them are doing some semblance of dancing in the living room. 

Mickey hasn’t had a drop of alcohol all day, but he feels drunk, and he just wraps his arms around Ian’s middle and lets him rock him in a weird, slow-fast dance hybrid that makes them step on each other’s feet and giggle like fuckin’ kids.

“Don’t even talk about freckly motherfuckers.” Mickey reaches a hand up to poke at Ian’s cheek, which is absolutely _littered_ with freckles.

“Whatever you say, birthday boy.”

Mickey stretches up and pecks Ian’s lips.

“Thanks,” he says when Ian pulls him into a slow dance. The song’s changed to “At Last” because Mrs. Callaghan’s fuckin’ sneaky, and well, whatever. Mickey sinks into him. Lets Ian pull him against his chest. Lets him sniff just under his ear and press his lips to his skin.

“For what?” Ian asks, trailing chaste kisses up the side of his neck.

Mickey shrugs and turns his head to the side. Mrs. Callaghan’s busying herself in the kitchen, cutting up the cake and scooping out ice cream.

“For talkin’ to me,” he says, squeezing his arms around Ian’s ribcage. 

And he means that very first day on kestrel, when he was nervous and defensive and didn’t know what he was doing. 

He means weeks later, when he felt slow and inexperienced.

He means all those nights they’d stay up until one, whispering in the dark. Sharing secrets. Being soft and gentle and daring to be real with someone they’d never met.

He means when they met for the first time, and he means that first night in bed, and he means that week and that weekend and he means here.

He means right now.

Ian pulls back enough to look him in the eye. He slides his hands up the sides of Mickey’s arms and around until he has his hands gently cupping the back of his neck, and he says, so softly, so sincerely, “You’re my favorite person I’ve ever talked to.”

Mickey smiles, and he meets his eyes, and he knows deep down in his heart that no matter what happens in their future, no matter where their life leads, he just wants them to be together.

He wants to talk to him _forever_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fun facts about Chapter 17:  
> -First, the fanart! You all are amazingly talented, and you have no idea how much joy it brings me when art is created for something I’ve written. I love it. Thank you so, so much!  
> captainbaekho ([1](https://twitter.com/captainbaekho/status/1279117714452250624?s=20), [2](https://twitter.com/captainbaekho/status/1279118494810939393?s=20))  
> ArtofOBSESSION ([1](https://twitter.com/ArtofOBSESSION/status/1278708218558992385?s=20), [2](https://twitter.com/ArtofOBSESSION/status/1277724056804945920?s=20)) -- **NSFW!**
> 
> -Mickey is listening to Radiohead at the beginning of the chapter, and we know he listens to them based on [this](https://mickeygifs.tumblr.com/post/622924897091469313/howd-u-know-what-that-one-s1-shirt-of-mickeys). I was going to have him listen to that particular song, which is “Nude” from their _In Rainbows_ album (you can read a great meta about Mickey + the song [here](https://matteoamiras.tumblr.com/post/623356193830780928/)), but I decided ultimately to have him listen to _OK Computer_ , which is my favorite album of theirs and one of my favorite albums of all time.
> 
> -On the topic of music, Sam & Dave's "Hold On, I'm Comin'" was a joke when I was in marching band in high school. We played it at football games, and toward the end, while the brass and percussion would continue playing, the woodwinds would sing the chorus. Imagine how a group of teenagers played around with that line. We thought it was hilarious.
> 
> -In retrospect, I wish I’d added in a conversation in one of the previous chapters in which Mickey shares how he’s always wanted to visit Mexico. But I honestly didn’t know I was going to have them go to the beach until after I posted the previous chapter, so I didn’t know I needed to set it up. However, I’ll probably add it to Ian’s POV.
> 
> -Speaking of, they were originally supposed to spend the day at Navy Pier, but the sunburn thing was super important to me and was always in my outline since the beginning, and I figured there was a better chance of them getting sunburned at the beach. Plus, it was hard to come up with things for them to do for 5+ hours at Navy Pier.
> 
> -While not directly related to LRPD, I want to say that [this art](https://twitter.com/Pilkovich/status/1281598334629752834?s=20) by Pilkovich is the _cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my life_ , and I was thinking about the image when I wrote LRPD Mickey being held in the water by Ian.
> 
> -The hotel windows are mirrored, so they can see out but people can't see in; therefore, they weren't giving anybody a show while they were in the bath. However! they didn't know that. They just didn't care.
> 
> -Next (last!) chapter will take place in November and will be an epilogue. I’m not sure how long it’ll be--whether it’ll be normal chapter length or if it’ll be a little shorter. But I should have it finished in the next couple weeks.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading! This story started off as just something fun to do to fill time and distract myself during the beginning of quarantine, and I can’t believe it’s July, and it’s almost 200k words. I was thinking it would be ~80k when I first started, so believe me when I say that I never expected it to grow out of my control like this! But throughout the months, I have enjoyed writing and sharing every word with you. Thank you so much for being supportive, for being kind, and most importantly, for simply reading it! You’re amazing, and I’m so grateful for the love and encouragement.
> 
> See you soon.
> 
> Gray


	18. Epilogue: November

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end. The beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are. The end. Thank you all so much for coming along for the ride. I hope you enjoy.

Ten years ago, when Mickey was a dirt-caked seventeen-year-old exchanging weed for a five-page literary analysis of _The Great Gatsby_ , he never could’ve imagined that one day the curly-haired shithead with the cocky grin would be helping him lug furniture into his apartment.

With the exception of Mickey’s freshly painted coffee- and end-tables, he and Ian had decided to swap his stained and scuffed yard sale living room furniture for Ian’s more modern and matching IKEA set. 

“You owe me so much more than pizza,” Lip argues, muscles straining as he carefully walks backward up the staircase, pulling the end of the stupidly heavy couch with him.

“Shut the fuck up and move your ass.” Mickey follows Lip up, carrying the other end, and together, the two of them manhandle the awkward, entirely gripless couch the rest of the way up the stairs, shove it through Mickey’s door, and place it in front of the TV. Ian and Carl follow a minute later, carrying a recliner. 

After wiping the sweat from his brow with the bottom of his T-shirt, Mickey heads to the fridge and pulls out drinks for everyone--beer for him and Carl and Cokes for Lip and Ian. He slides three drinks across the counter to be taken by the others and twists the cap off his bottle.

“Home sweet fuckin’ home,” he announces after the others have snatched up their own drinks, holding his bottle out for a wry toast.

Cheers and sláinte and goddamn _budmo_. Here’s to whatever-the-fuck Mickey’s getting into--this huge-ass, dramatic family with the ginger middle child he loves with a love that burns like electricity beneath his skin. Here’s to a future getting to know the curly-haired shithead he once chased through the streets with a pool stick. The same dude who’s tilting the neck of his Coke to Mickey’s beer like ten years erases a world of teenage Southside animosity.

Maybe it does.

Carl grabs the pizza box from the table and carries it over to where Lip, Ian, and Mickey are congregated around the corner of the kitchen counter, and the four of them scarf down the entire extra large, extra pepperoni and talk about dumb shit that leaves Mickey laughing with his mouth full and playfully raising his middle fingers at Lip and Carl when they leave half an hour later.

“You and Lip are gonna be friends,” Ian murmurs once the door has shut behind them. He sidles up to Mickey and wraps an arm around his side.

“The fuck are you talkin’ about?”

“Just a feeling.” He shrugs and takes a slow drink of his Coke. “And Carl thinks you’re a badass.”

“He _thinks_ , huh?”

“Yes, _thinks_.”

Mickey smiles when Ian moves around to stand in front of him, sets down his Coke bottle on the counter, and gets both arms around his torso. He bends to press a peck of a kiss to Mickey’s forehead.

“He doesn’t know what I know.”

Mickey lifts a brow at him. “And what do _you_ know?”

“You’re sweet.”

“Shut up.”

Ian smirks. Dips to drag his upturned lips against Mickey’s jawline. “It’s okay, though. I won’t blow your cover.” He gives him a gentle, licking bite to the skin beneath his ear. His breath’s hot, tongue’s hotter.

Mickey exhales heavily, eyelids fluttering. “Whatcha gonna blow, then? Huh?”

“Damn.” Ian huffs a laugh and begins to slowly drag his arms down Mickey’s sides, hands inching toward his ass. “That was pretty smooth.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhm.”

Ian grips at Mickey’s upper-thighs, just under his ass, and with a grunt of exertion, heaves him up onto the countertop.

And Mickey’s expecting him to open his belt, then. To slide his jeans down a few inches so he can get at his cock. But instead, Ian just steps between his legs, gets his arms back around his torso, and leans in, resting his head against Mickey’s chest.

Mickey wraps his arms around him, squeezes at his sides with his knees, and holds him tight.

“We live together,” Ian says, voice soft like he’s telling a secret.

Mickey bows his head and presses his lips to Ian’s crown. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, inhaling the sweetness of last night’s shampoo and the sour warmth of today’s sweat.

They _live together_. Mickey lives with the man he loves--shares his bed and his heart and hopefully his life--and it’s the most _impossible_ fucking thing. The most impossible thing. 

He smears his lips against Ian’s scalp, kisses him like a promise, and he can’t believe how his entire world has been altered in the span of just less than a year. Can’t believe how his heart, once crushed like butterfly wings beneath a boot, could thump so strong, so sure, beneath the ear of a lover.

Ian nuzzles into his chest, relaxing into Mickey’s embrace. 

Mickey holds him, and it feels more like home than any physical place he’s ever lived in his life.

\---

In the three months since Mickey asked Ian to move in, the two of them, bit by bit, made decisions about furniture and donations and what could go to the Gallagher house and what could be sold and what they wanted to buy to make their lives better.

Ian stayed at Mickey’s place most days of the week, only spending enough time at his own apartment to not feel entirely shitty about continuing to pay out the rest of his lease. And even then, Mickey tended to go with him more often than not, picking up take-out after work and heading over with an overnight bag in tow.

Ian’s lease was up November fourteenth, and the two of them used that day to move the last bits of Ian’s space into Mickey’s space. They food-bribed Lip and Carl to help load up and transport Ian’s furniture, and they offered beer to two ambiguously college-aged neighborhood guys if they agreed to haul up their first joint purchase on hand-trucks.

It’s a washer and dryer, and they’re cheap--just $450 a unit--but they work just fine, and they look shiny and new in Mickey’s all-purpose-closet-that’s-actually-supposed-to-be-a-laundry-room.

He’d felt like a legit fuckin’ adult when he’d handed over the beers to the kids and then walked into the hallway to survey his apartment. He’d placed his hands on his hips and taken a deep breath, and Ian had wrapped his arm around his shoulders in the quiet of their shared space and let him think.

And now it’s four hours later, and Ian’s all moved in, furniture in place and boxes littering the hallway floor, and Mickey’s sitting on the countertop, holding the man he loves and feeling _impossibly_ happy over soft things.

This is Ian, and this is their shared apartment, and this is the life Mickey never thought he’d have.

\---  
\---

Mickey grumbles about it but helps Ian unpack his shit. He doesn’t have a ton of storage space--just a six-foot wide closet and a modest dresser with only three drawers he uses for clothes. But they make do. They dump Ian’s underwear in with Mickey’s because whatever, they wear the same size, regularly have physical contact with each other’s junk, and there’s no point in separating that shit out when it’s all the same. 

Finding space for Ian’s nicer clothes is even easier, as the contents of Mickey’s closet consists of simply an ill-fitting suit, a couple versions of his work uniform, and a few button-downs he’s only worn once or twice.

“This feel weird to you, too?” Ian asks gently, sliding his last long-sleeved EMT uniform top into the closet and taking a slow few steps backward to survey his work.

Mickey’s stretched out on the bed, watching him, having found himself useless after cramming Ian’s T-shirts and running shorts into the bottom drawer of his dresser.

He shrugs and rolls onto his back. “Sorta.”

“Good weird, though, right?” Ian’s voice grows louder as he crosses the room, and Mickey feels the bed dip as he starts to climb on with him.

Mickey _hmm_ s, watching Ian stretch out partially over him, propping his head up on his right elbow beside Mickey but slinging his left leg and arm across his body. 

He takes a moment to think about it. And it isn’t as if the answer is ever going to be _no_ because _of course it’s good_. It’s fucking amazing. But it’s a feeling he can’t quite pin down because he can’t quite believe it’s even happening to begin with.

Ian stares at him, biting his top and bottom lip in an alternating pattern, patient.

Mickey sniffs. “It’s…”

Ian raises his eyebrows.

And well, it’s hard to explain. It’s everything, really. Every good thing there is. But it’s also weird as fuck, like going to bed in a shithole apartment and waking up in a million-dollar mansion. Unimaginable. The attainment of something unattainable.

Mickey scoots in and drapes his right arm around Ian’s side, fingers beginning a soothing swirl on his back.

“Good weird, right?” Ian prompts once more, voice soft, a tinge of worry slipping in under each syllable.

Mickey just stares at him, eyes wandering across his face--over those freckles still deeper in shade and more numerous than before their August sunburn, over the stray hairs escaping the shape of his eyebrows, over his ginger lashes and his sweet, asymmetrical jaw sporting two days of stubble.

And _fuck_ , he may not be able to grasp his feelings on the situation enough to properly articulate them, but he knows that he has so much love for Ian Gallagher that his heart’s helpless to hold it all. It spills. Spills over into Mickey’s belly and his chest--the swooping and the tightening, the _twisting_ that’s really just another word for butterflies.

It spills into his throat, into his mouth, his nose, and exits as a grin and a laugh that he snorts out, presses into Ian’s throat, muffles against warm, stubbly skin and finishes with a kiss.

“What?” Ian asks, amused. He pulls back and watches Mickey’s face, lips curling up into a smile.

Mickey laughs again, and he pulls him back in, and he says, soft and slow, right up against his jaw, “I don’t even know, man.”

“ _Good weird_ , though?” Ian asks once more, sliding down until their mouths are level and their pizza-Coke-beer breaths are hot and mixing and somehow not at all unpleasant.

Mickey presses an inch closer into a soft, sucking kiss. He slides his hand up Ian’s back, drags it around and cups it by his jaw, thumb pressing against his cheek. “Great weird, man,” he whispers on the pull-back before pecking his upper lip.

Ian drops his mouth open at that. Something’s got to him, rabbit-kicked his heart, twisted up his belly. Mickey noses in and tilts his head and kisses him, fingers rubbing at his strong jaw and his rough, stubbly skin, lungs taking in his quick exhalations, swallowing up whatever this is for him--whatever happy feeling is surging through his chest.

\---

It’s making out for a while, and then it’s making love.

They undress slowly, lips breaking just enough to remove articles of clothing. They’re fuckin’ gross, honestly, bodies slick with remains of sweat from the move, armpits smelling of deodorant on its last leg, but it’s fine. It’s all fine, and it’s more than that, really, when Ian’s got Mickey pinned on his back, their fingers laced and pressed into the mattress.

“Fuck, Mickey,” Ian says, hips wiggling their way between his knees. He sounds amazed, like he’s woken up in that mansion after falling asleep in the shithole.

Mickey _hm_ s and presses his head back into the pillow so he can get the best view of him--of his hair falling in his eyes, of the flat, fuzzy plane of his torso that meets Mickey’s own at the stomach.

“We _live_ together.” Ian grins, pulling his right hand from Mickey’s so he can cup it around his jaw. He leans in, presses a kiss to his lips, then touches their foreheads together. “Like, officially.”

Mickey smiles against the warm puffs of his breath and, with his free hand, combs through Ian’s hair. “You checkin’ shit off your list?”

“Absolutely.”

“Absolutely?”

“Mmhm.”

They kiss, and it’s soft and sweet.

“What’s next on your list?” Mickey asks, voice light, teasing.

Ian pulls back and reaches for the nightstand drawer to grab the lube. “Makin’ you come.”

“Think that’s already been checked off a time or two, tough guy.”

Ian smirks as he pops open the tube with his thumb and squirts a dollop onto his fingers. “Not as cohabitating partners, it hasn’t.”

“Partners, huh?”

Ian shrugs as he rubs his fingers together, warming up the lube. His lips press into a straight line, a bit of sheepishness creeping into his expression for a moment before slowly slipping away, as if he’s decided not to be embarrassed, after all. 

“Partners. Boyfriends. Whatever.”

Mickey gives him a small, tight smile and nods. “I like it.”

“Yeah?”

And it’s such a sweet, soft conversation to have while Ian’s circling Mickey’s entrance with a lubed finger. He slides in a digit, then quickly another, their regular sex life making Mickey a pretty easy two-finger prep to start.

“Yeah,” Mickey murmurs, part affirmation, part pleasure-sigh.

After Mickey’s ready, Ian lubes himself up and presses in, and Mickey thinks about how he’ll never get over this. It’ll never get old. The feeling of Ian’s hot cock sliding deep into him, this too-much-too-much fullness that slowly gives way to exactly what he wants, exactly what he needs.

And it’s vanilla as hell and boring by the standards of some, but Mickey’ll never not love this position, too, the two of them belly-to-belly, Mickey’s limbs wrapped around Ian, his body slowly sliding up and down, inch by inch, on the sheets.

They don’t always fuck this way--it’s not always what they crave, this intense, face-to-face encounter, the near-constant kissing, the sharing of breath and the staring and the smiles. But when they do it, it’s deep, and it’s sometimes slow, and it feels like love transference, the pressing of chests, stomachs, the sharing of heat.

Ian grips Mickey by the sides of his head, fingers carded through his hair, and breathes harshly into his face as he moves inside him. Mickey locks his arms around Ian’s torso and his legs around his waist and pulls him in and in, close.

His fucking _partner_. Mickey watches Ian’s face, feels the pull of that fullness inside him, in and out, soft, soft, and then harder, faster. His _partner_.

And it occurs to him then, as he scrabbles his fingers against the sweaty skin of Ian’s back and squeezes his eyes shut--letting his _partner_ love him with his body, letting him push out those soft pleasure sighs, those punch-in-the-back _uh_ s--that this is forever and ever and he knows it. He _knows it_ , and even if it isn’t, even if the world crumbles and they’re torn apart, he knows that Ian’s it. Ian’s the only man he’ll ever love, the only person he’ll ever want inside him like this, moving in him like this, making those cute sex faces he probably doesn’t even know he makes, that scrunched nose and those squeezed-shut eyes and that dropped mouth.

Mickey opens his eyes and smiles at him, pulls him close, presses his mouth against Ian’s upper lip and sucks.

“You feel so good,” he murmurs on the pull-back because he does--like warmth and life and the intensity of passion that burns beneath their skin, seeps out their pores. He feels good like tingles in his belly, a sharp, sharp burst of pleasure inside him, a rocking, rocking fullness that rubs him exactly where it’s needed, exactly how he wants it.

“You, too,” Ian pants, whispers a _fuck_ and slides his arms down to scoop beneath Mickey’s lower back.

He pulls, and it’s a heave that causes the two of them to laugh and Mickey to have to use his own arms to push himself up, but suddenly, Ian’s sitting upright, and he’s got Mickey in his lap, and he’s still inside him.

Ian grips Mickey around the waist, nails digging into the skin of his back, and Mickey pushes up on his knees and circles his hips as he lowers, aiming for that perfect spot.

“Oh my fucking God,” Ian says, hands sliding down to Mickey’s ass, squeezing him and pulling him apart, pushing him harder onto his cock on every downstroke. 

Mickey moans and then smiles because it feels good and he’s happy. He always smiles the whole way through sex with Ian like his fucking pleasure meter’s broken, always pointing a little toward happy no matter how high it goes, no matter how heavy things get, hard they get, Ian’s cock just making him grin like a motherfucker.

He opens his eyes and grips Ian around the neck, pulls him in and breathes against his mouth, kisses as best he can through his smile. Ian snickers against him, grin breaking so wide their teeth touch for a brief moment.

Fucking _partners_.

Mickey rubs their noses together, sucks a kiss to Ian’s stubbly jawline, and gently presses against his chest until he lies back, giving Mickey full riding access.

And he doesn’t bounce now so much as grind, hands to Ian’s chest, fingers touching at his nipples and his collarbone, gripping at his shoulders as Ian squeezes him around the waist and guides him back and forth and around.

“Fuck,” Mickey whispers, tilting his head back, eyes closed. He bites his bottom lip and luxuriates in the drag of Ian’s cock against his prostate--perfect, perfect every time.

There’s several moments of this, the two of them breathing harshly, no words exchanged but soft moans and panted swears when things get intense. Mickey gets lost in it, lost in the pleasure, lost in the fucking smile on his face and the goddamn _butterflies_ in his belly.

Suddenly, Ian murmurs, “Mickey,” and it isn’t a sex utterance but an attempt to get his attention.

Mickey exhales and opens his eyes, trains them on Ian, who’s red-faced and beautifully sweaty, forehead shiny and hair curling up at the edges with wetness.

“Yeah?” Mickey asks, rocking his hips in a steady grind that causes his eyelids to feel heavy, fighting to close.

Ian squeezes his hips, fingers dimpling into his skin. “I love you so much,” he says before pursing his lips and blowing out a slow breath.

Mickey smiles and lowers down to kiss him.

He feels Ian’s hands move to his hair, guiding his face and shifting the angle of their kiss. 

“God, I love you, too,” Mickey murmurs against his mouth, losing coordination in all aspects of his body, his hips getting jerky, tongue getting slow.

Ian gets his feet up on the bed, legs bent, and Mickey pushes up on his knees and braces himself for Ian’s finishing thrusts.

Ian pulls him as close as he can, holding him so tight it pushes the breath out of him, and pistons his hips in hard, hard upward jabs that make Mickey keen and pant through an open mouth.

A string of curses are on his lips as Ian grips him, fucks up into him, his body hardening, lengthening as he stretches out his spine, close.

“You gonna come?” Mickey whispers, barely managing to get it out through heaving breaths.

Ian nods furiously and squeezes his eyes shut, and Mickey grinds back onto him even as he thrusts up. He rubs at his nipples and scratches through his chest hair, and Ian starts to hold his breath.

“Come in me. _Fuck_ , Ian.”

“Okay. Yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah.” And it’s fucking cute the way he says it, like he’s agreeing to something rather than simply letting pleasure take over. 

Mickey laughs right in the middle of it all, as he’s point five seconds away from orgasm and getting his hand on his cock.

“Yeah?” he teases, stroking himself at a steady pace, fingers sliding easily through the slippery pre-come. He hears the wetness of Ian’s own fluids mixed with lube causing a slick _squelch_ sound with every thrust of his cock into Mickey, and it’s sexy as hell. Makes his belly tighten.

“Yeah. Gonna come.”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

They pant out laughs, and Mickey dips down to kiss Ian affectionately, a sweetness to it that causes Ian to collapse his legs and get a hand in Mickey’s hair, pulling him in for another, then another.

Mickey takes back over the grinding, and Ian takes over the strokes to Mickey’s cock, and together, they drag their bodies slowly to the finish line, up, up, up the hill before the freefall. 

“Coming,” Ian utters, voice weak and shaky, and Mickey squeezes around him rhythmically, by now knowing exactly how to do it, exactly how to make him feel fucking awesome.

Ian pushes his hips up a little, weak little things under Mickey’s weight, and squirms, body flushing even further, chest blotchy. He lets out a soft little moan, and then he’s coming, and Mickey can feel it all. He feels the pulsing of his cock, the flood of wetness, the intense surge of his own arousal due to all the things he feels for this man beneath him, the goddamned love of his life.

When Ian’s done, he’s breathless, and Mickey slows his movements, watching the sweetness on his face as he comes down. Watching his features smooth out, the uncreasing of his brow, the unscrunching of his nose, the release of his bottom lip.

He opens his eyes, and he smiles, panting and tired, and Mickey leans down and presses a soft kiss to his lips.

“Come on my face,” Ian whispers, and Mickey loses his breath.

He snickers because it’s a little bit funny, maybe, even if it’s hot as hell, and slowly slides off of Ian’s softening cock, cringing at the surge of come he feels slide out of him and drip onto Ian’s pubes and then his belly when he moves up.

And coming on your boyfriend’s face is probably supposed to be an intensely erotic experience, but Mickey just thinks it’s fun. He’s done it a couple times before, and Ian’s always so cute about it. Mickey smiles as he aims his cock at Ian’s mouth and brings himself off with a series of quick-quick strokes that make him moan.

“Fuck,” he groans as he comes, holding on to his cock and feeling it pulse out onto Ian’s face.

Ian squeezes his eyes shut like Mickey’s squirting acid at him, and Mickey thinks it’s so fuckin’ dumb and he loves him so fuckin’ much that he laughs through the sharp edge of his orgasm, feeling so good he can hardly bear it.

Ian laughs, too, then, and suddenly they’re kissing, and Mickey’s getting his own come all over his face, and well, gross, but fuck it, it’s amazing.

“Hot,” he says with a snort, swiping his forearm over his cheek and eye.

“So hot,” Ian agrees, and he’s entirely serious.

They kiss, and it’s slow and smile-filled, and god-fucking-dammit, man, they’re _partners_ , and they _live together_ , and Mickey loves every fucking millimeter of Ian Gallagher.

\---

Mickey flops off to the side and grabs a Kleenex, wiping off his face and then balling it up and tossing it at Ian’s head.

Ian flips him off and grabs it, using it to clean up himself.

Mickey snatches another and--having lost literally all sense of shame after being fucked bareback at least five times a week for three months--goes to wipe at his ass.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Ian says, holding up a hand. “Can I do it?”

Mickey rolls his eyes and groans. “Fuck you’s what you can do.”

Ian leans over, almost falling off the bed in an attempt to grab his jeans, and pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Please.”

“What the hell do you want this shit for?”

“I wanna be able to look at your asshole at work.”

“What the fuck.”

Ian bursts into giggles and obnoxiously flops over onto Mickey. “ _Please_.”

Mickey stares at him, eyes narrowed. Ian’s been asking ever since the morning in the shower after they’d just stopped using condoms. Mickey thinks he’s a fuckin’ weirdo.

“ _Please_ , Mickey.”

Mickey lets out a snort and shoves Ian off him. “If you accidentally post this shit on Instagram, I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”

“Oh my God,” Ian says, voice light and amused. “Can you imagine?”

Mickey rolls over onto his stomach and pushes up on his knees. “Be quick.”

It’s a painless process, but it makes him squirm. It’s basically worth it, though, for the look on Ian’s face when he’s done. He’s flushed, and his breath is starting to speed again with arousal, even as he clearly tries to slow it down through pursed lips.

“Thanks,” he says, a grin spreading across his face. He swipes around on his phone, probably putting it in his “Nudes” folder. “Wanna see?”

“Nope.”

“It looks like something from porn.”

“Perv.”

“Yep.” Ian puts his phone down and tackles Mickey onto the bed. “The perviest.” He kisses him, and it’s not the littlest bit pervy.

\---  
\---

They fry up steaks and make baked potatoes for dinner. While the food’s cooking, they play with Jovi, throwing the mouse toy for him to run after and bouncing around his feather pole toy for him to smack at.

“C’mere, Joves,” Ian says when it’s time to eat, scooping up the cat and giving him a long snuggle before setting him back down again. Mickey watches him as he plates their food, and he can’t help the way his heart leaps at it. They basically share a cat now. 

Jovi’s got two fuckin’ dads. 

He snorts, and Ian comes up behind him, squeezing his waist and playfully biting his shoulder. “What?”

“You and the cat.”

“Ahh. He’s my buddy.” Ian smacks Mickey’s ass and goes to get the silverware.

\---

Several minutes later, while they’re eating and play-arguing about something stupid, there’s a knock at the door.

Mrs. Callaghan’s left a Tupperware container of banana pudding with a sticky note stuck to the lid: _Didn’t want to disturb. Love you, boys. Enjoy your time together tonight and every night after._

“I want her to be my grandma,” Ian says with a fond smile after Mickey flicks the note at him so he can read it, as well. He goes to straighten up the note, which Mickey had crumpled a bit, and when he turns it over, he grins.

“Check it.” He passes it back across the table to Mickey.

On the back, as if she’d run out of room on the front, is written, _Don’t forget to dance with each other. You’ll be in love forever._

Mickey grumbles and goes back to cutting into his steak.

\---

“Y’know,” Ian says once they’re done eating and the dishes are rinsed and in the dishwasher. “We should probably take her advice.”

“How’d I end up with the world’s sappiest motherfucker?”

Ian just grins at him--closed-mouthed, sweet. He takes Mickey by the forearm and tugs him out into the middle of the kitchen floor. 

There’s already a [slow Whitney Houston cover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pHxK3S0d3HY) playing over the bluetooth speaker, and well. Whatever. Mickey’s in love.

He’s in love with Ian Gallagher, and he’s going to dance with him in their kitchen, and he’s going to be happy and free and safe in his arms. He’s going to be home.

Ian kisses his forehead over and over as they dance--soft, soft kisses that mean nothing but tender love. Mickey wraps his arms around his torso and buries his face in his warm neck, smells the soap from their recent shower, and feels like everything’s led up to this. 

His whole fucking life. His pain and his worries and his fears. Everything’s led here. The fighting’s led here. The moment he stood in the doorway of his dad’s bedroom with a baseball bat, tears streaming down his face, wanting nothing but to be free.

Wanting this.

He kisses Ian’s throat and squeezes him tight, and they dance until the song’s over, until Kodak Black’s playing and they’re laughing, trying to teasingly keep their sway going completely against the beat.

“Dork,” Mickey murmurs after a minute, shoving Ian away. 

“Yeah.” Ian takes him by the hands and leads him into the bedroom.

\---

Mickey used to frequent a “Sensual Blowjob” playlist on his favorite porn site. It was about twelve videos of slow, thorough blowjobs that made Mickey curl his toes when he’d jerk off, imagining having that done to him--imagining a man with his mouth wrapped around his cock, sucking at him, licking at him.

And as he and Ian blow each other their first night as _cohabitating partners_ , Mickey can’t help but think that a video of it would fit perfectly in that playlist.

The sixty-nine position is a little awkward when there’s nearly half a foot of height difference and mismatches in their proportions--torso versus legs--but they, like everything else, make it work. 

They lie on their sides and grip at each other, suck each other slowly and thoroughly and as sensually as anything Mickey’s ever seen in porn. And they _gasp_ throughout it, squeezing at each other’s thighs and lifting off to pant when the pleasure peaks to the point where they can no longer suck.

“ _Fuck_ , Mickey,” Ian groans, exhaling hot breath onto his balls. He kisses at him and pulls him back into his mouth, and Mickey has to move back so he doesn’t choke on Ian.

“This is so fuckin’ hot,” he murmurs, stroking Ian’s cock, pressing the wet, slippery head to his lips and giving it intermittent licks and sucks. “Fuck, I want you to come on _my_ face.”

“Mickey, oh my God.” Ian stops blowing him and takes up jerking him instead, and then he becomes useless at that when he gets so close to the edge that Mickey feels the heartbeat of a pulse in Ian’s cock beneath his palm and a little rush of pre-come against his lips.

“Come on,” Mickey encourages, stroking faster, rubbing the head of Ian’s cock against the soft pad of his tongue. “I gotcha.”

Ian makes a high-pitched sound, followed by a long, shaky exhale, and Mickey closes his eyes as he begins to feel the hot beats of come against his mouth and chin.

“Fuck-fuck-fuck,” Ian pants. He curls inward and tries but fails to take hold of Mickey’s cock in the process, and Mickey takes pity on him and takes him into his mouth, catching the last surge of come against the back of his throat.

“Jesus Christ.” Ian looks wrecked when he watches Mickey swipe at the come on his chin. “Ya killed me.”

Mickey wraps his arm around Ian’s thighs and kisses him there affectionately--sweet, sucking kisses on the tender, soft bits near his groin. 

“You’re not allowed to die yet, man. Still gotta job to do.”

Ian laughs and, as if he’s lost all strength to do anything else, presses a single peck to the wet head of Mickey’s cock.

Mickey gives him a minute and then pulls him up, orienting him so they can kiss for long moments. 

“I’m never gonna get enough of you,” Ian says with confidence, lifting his head and looking Mickey in the eye.

Mickey smiles. Runs his fingers through Ian’s sweaty hair. “That’s good, ‘cause I’m kinda hopin’ to be in this for the long haul.”

Ian’s face cracks with joy at that, and he’s beautiful. Mickey hopes he knows it.

He pulls him in, and he presses his lips to his forehead, and he whispers, “You’re beautiful as fuck, man.”

Ian snickers. “I’m gonna blow you no matter what. Don’t gotta butter me up.” 

“Ain’t butterin’ up your ass.” He sniffs and slides his hands down around the back of Ian’s neck, cupping him there where it’s warm and sweaty. “Just sayin’.”

Ian stares at him, and he looks touched and soft, maybe a bit shy. “Thanks,” he says, and Mickey knows now that he wants to tell him he’s beautiful every day of his life.

\---

Ian sucks him like he’s going for gold, and it’s incredible how good it is. His tongue is soft, and the gentle scritch of nails against Mickey's belly and side give him just the tiniest bit of sting to balance out the immense pleasure.

Ian takes him all the way to the back of his throat just before he comes, and Mickey gasps and gasps and runs his fingers through the long parts of Ian’s hair and can’t help but groan, “Fuckin’ perfect, man. Fuck.”

His orgasm rushes through him when it comes, and it’s hard and intense due to the previous build-up and cool-down. Ian coughs a little midway through, and Mickey gives him an affectionate rub to the crown of his head and blows out a breath at how great he feels.

Soft. Warm. Right.

\---

“Perfect, huh?” Ian teases several minutes later. Mickey reaches out and swipes a stray bit of come at the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t get a big head, dick. My cock was in your throat.”

“Uh huh.”

Mickey kicks at him and flops over onto his back.

The two of them adjust themselves until Mickey’s resting his head on Ian’s outstretched arm, and they lie there for a long moment in peace, quiet and content, the only sounds in the room the steady slowing of their breaths.

“Did you mean it?” Ian asks suddenly, breaking the silence.

“Hm?”

“When you said you’re in this for the long haul.”

Mickey turns his head to look at him, but Ian’s staring at the ceiling, worrying his lips. He nods anyway, gently.

“Yeah,” he says, voice soft like cotton. 

Ian tilts his head and finally looks back at him. “Good. Me too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Mickey moves his eyes away, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks and knowing his face is red. He stares at the ceiling, and he thinks about the situation he’s in and how fucking ridiculous it would seem to him as a kid. So ridiculous he wouldn’t have believed it.

He chuckles a little--humorless, a release.

Ian _hm_ s in question.

And Mickey’s never talked to anybody about this before. He’s the only person in the entire world who knows the intimacies of his life, who knows what he was like inside as a kid--his thoughts, his feelings, his hopes and dreams.

There’s safety in that--in being the only person who knows something, holding that information in a locked safe, sure nobody can take it, can use it, can harm you with it.

But Mickey’s in this for the long haul. He wants a life with Ian. He wants fuckin’ _everything_ with him.

He takes a deep breath. Blows it out in a long, slow stream.

“When I was a kid, I used to dream about this shit, man.”

Ian shifts around, and the two of them twist until they’re on their sides, able to see each other. Mickey curls his arm under his head and continues.

“Y’know. My dad was a fuckin’ monster. Woulda killed me if he knew I was gay. Used to beat the shit outta me for breathin’ sometimes.” He pauses. Assesses Ian’s reaction.

Ian’s just watching him, lips pressed tightly together but eyes open, accepting. It’s the face of someone who loves him--who hates what he hears because of that.

“And I remember just layin’ in bed at night, starin’ at the ceiling, thinkin’ that was it. That was my fuckin’ life. I was gonna be too chicken shit to ever have anything more than fucks with guys behind a dumpster. Nobody was ever gonna like, fuckin’...” 

He takes a deep breath and trains his eyes on the pillow, embarrassed. “Nobody was ever gonna love me and shit.” He shrugs, and he sniffs, and he hates himself a little for feeling a bit like crying. “Not like I wanted, y’know. I couldn’t ever be with a guy. Have a boyfriend or.” Mickey drags a hand over his eyes. “Fall in love with somebody.”

He swallows. This shit’s hard. His stomach hurts with it, but he wants Ian to know. Wants him to know what he is in his life--where he lies within his world. How much space he takes up and all the gaps he fills.

He breathes. Ian’s hand touches his cheek, and Mickey finally looks at him. His face is unreadable but his eyes are unmistakably sad.

“I dunno,” Mickey continues, voice softer than before. “I just. I never thought I could have this. And then I met you, and it’s like.” He blows out a breath. “You’re it.”

He laughs a bit because he can’t help it, the nerves tickling up his spine and bubbling out in an embarrassed chuckle. He feels the flush on his cheeks and chest, and if he couldn’t feel it, he’d know it by the way Ian’s staring at him, lips slowly upturning, thumb rubbing at the spot on his cheek that always gets so red.

Mickey doesn’t know if he can take it, but he tries, anyway, finishing with a voice so soft he has to clear his throat mid-way to get everything out. “You’re exactly what I always wanted when I was sixteen.”

Ian steals a kiss from him, then. It’s soft, and they breathe against each other’s noses before parting, Ian stroking his fingers through the side of Mickey’s hair.

“I can’t even begin to tell you...” Ian starts once they’ve pulled back. They leave their foreheads pressed together, and Ian continues to gently stroke Mickey’s hair, gentling him. “I can’t even express how happy you make me.”

Ian bites his lip, and Mickey goes a bit cross-eyed watching it. He taps their noses together, a reassuring little stroke.

“I spent a long time just existing,” Ian continues, breath warm against Mickey’s mouth. He kisses him again and pulls back to talk more comfortably, tucking his arm under his head. “Don’t think I was ever really happy after my diagnosis. Felt fucked up all the time. Worthless. I dunno.” 

He smiles brightly, but it’s strange and sad, and when his eyes crinkle, Mickey gently drapes his arm across his side and begins to rub at his back.

“But I met you. And it’s like something clicked. You made me feel good, and you made me happy. And I just wanted you with me all the time.”

He huffs an embarrassed laugh and trains his eyes on Mickey’s neck. “I started thinkin’ about shit, y’know? Like the future, and plans, and about things I wanna do.” 

Ian swallows. “You’re so good for me. Falling in love with you fuckin’ saved me.” He blows out a breath, eyes making their way back to Mickey’s. 

And it’s Mickey’s turn to steal the kiss. He slides his rubbing hand up the back of Ian’s neck and presses him forward. Touches their lips together.

They kiss for several minutes--soft. Nothing going beyond occasional brushes of tongue, nobody getting hard, nobody looking to advance it or turn it into anything but what it is and what it means.

“I love you, Mickey Milkovich,” Ian murmurs at the end, fingers taking up that stroking through his hair.

Mickey smiles at the use of his full name, and the breath he lets out after is shaky, nervous. But he takes the moment for what it is, and he presses his forehead to Ian’s, and he says, just loud enough for him to hear, “Love you, too. Always gonna love you.”

 _He’s gonna love him forever_.

\---  
\---

Ian pulls out his laptop in bed that night, just after they’ve settled down and switched off the lights.

“Wanna see something?” he asks, sitting up and scooting back to rest against the headboard.

Curious, Mickey shrugs and does the same. Jovi comes in, then, and stretches out in the valley between their legs, and Ian smiles in the light of the computer screen as he waits for his Google Doc to load.

“What’s up?” Mickey asks, leaning closer in order to get a good look.

Not that he can really tell in the darkness, but he thinks Ian flushes a little, if only because of the way he shifts his eyes and gnaws at his bottom lip before speaking.

“I’m typing up my list.”

Mickey snorts. “Dork.”

“Wanna help?”

“If I help, it’s no longer _your_ list.”

Rolling his eyes, Ian changes the document title from “My List” to “Our List.”

Mickey smiles at it because it’s exactly the kind of dumb shit he loves about him. He smacks a kiss to his cheek. “Fine.”

Ian tilts his head and gives him a look, and Mickey softens further. 

Walls are fine when you want to keep people out. He doesn’t want to keep Ian out.

“Let’s do this shit,” he corrects, tugging the laptop closer.

\---

They spend over an hour working on their list, Googling vacation destinations and amusement parks and routes from Chicago to the West Coast. They talk about money and about how much they want to save each month.

And then, after a minute of silence, Ian begins tapping his fingers absently on the keys--not typing anything, just making restless noise.

“What?” Mickey asks, poking his forearm.

Instead of answering out loud, Ian bites his lip, taps “return,” and types, _Become a certified paramedic (Ian)_. He looks over at Mickey for a moment in question.

Mickey smiles at him. Nods. He takes the laptop and types, _Become a bodyguard (Mickey)_.

“You’d be really good at that,” Ian says happily, grinning brightly, his teeth gleaming in the light of the screen. “It’d be really fuckin’ hot, too.”

“Shut up.”

Ian kisses his temple. 

They lie there, lit by the pale, white glow, and silently read through their list together. Jovi purrs between them, and they take turns giving him gentle rubs to the ears.

There are some things it’s too soon to put on the list, maybe. Things like houses and SUVs and things that are _more_. Forever things.

But Mickey has them on his mental list, and he has them in his heart, and he knows that one day they’ll add them. It could be in a month, and it could be in a year, but Mickey knows as much as he knows anything that it’ll happen. One day. 

Because they have _one day_ s laid out before them. They have _one day_ s forever.

One day, they’ll go to Six Flags Great America, and they’ll get overheated and sunburned and motion sick from riding every rollercoaster in the park.

One day, they’ll pack up a car and spend a couple weeks on the road, headed for the Pacific Ocean.

One day, they’ll go to Mexico.

One day, they’ll sit down, and they’ll search Zillow for house listings in the area. And they might talk about their future, and what it’ll look like, and how many rooms their house might need and why.

They have _one day_ s. They have thousands of them. They have an entire life of love ahead--years to learn and to grow. Years to enjoy. 

Years to live.

One day, they’ll be at dinner, or they’ll be hanging out in the park, or they’ll be watching fuckin’ Netflix with a bowl of salt and vinegar chips, and they’ll look at each other, and they’ll know. _They’ll know_.

And one day, everything they’ve ever done together, said to each other, every look they’ve ever shared is going to coalesce into the inevitable, into the obvious, into what Mickey knows, even now, as he leans into the warmth of Ian’s chest and smells the detergent on his T-shirt, is where they’re going. Where they’ll be in ten years, maybe five, maybe three. (Maybe two.)

One day, Mickey’s going to marry him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fun facts about Chapter 18:  
> -First, the beautiful fanart for Chapter 17. I cannot even begin to express how happy you have made me with your artwork. Thank you so much.  
> captainbaekho ([1](https://twitter.com/captainbaekho/status/1285508891787366400?s=20), [2](https://twitter.com/captainbaekho/status/1289122694500429831?s=20), [3](https://twitter.com/captainbaekho/status/1289123599626964992?s=20), [4](https://twitter.com/captainbaekho/status/1289127771709603841?s=20))  
> doodlevich ([1](https://doodlevich.tumblr.com/post/623905637037899777/ive-started-drawing-some-of-my-favorite-scenes), [2](https://doodlevich.tumblr.com/post/624096142857273344/mickey-cant-help-but-grab-at-him-playfully-when), [3](https://doodlevich.tumblr.com/post/624663442095259648/i-love-just-hangin-out-with-you-ian-admits-a)) 
> 
> -I always intended to have Ian tell Mickey about the appointment with his therapist in the penultimate scene, but I’m going to save it for Ian’s POV.
> 
> -If I write one-shot sequels to this, they’ll all be part of a series chronicling Ian and Mickey’s adventures checking off items on their list.
> 
> -I may, at some point, come back and add an optional Chapter 19 to this, and it’ll just be a PWP of Mickey trying out topping Ian. I feel like it will have taken place sometime between August and November. 
> 
> -Ian’s POV is coming soon. It’s called “Everything About You,” and my song inspiration is loosely [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oO993XB54RQ). Can’t wait.
> 
> I don’t even know what to say. I love you all so much, and I gotta be honest: I can’t believe I finished this. And I know I would never have done it without the endless support and kindness of people who read and commented and sent me messages. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I’m so truly grateful. <333
> 
> See you soon.
> 
> Gray


	19. What Lovers Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian and Mickey try something new. 
> 
> Takes place between chapters 17 and 18 (a couple weeks before Ian moves in with Mickey).
> 
> This is the "Mickey-and-Ian-switch-things-up" one-shot I mentioned in the end notes of the epilogue. It involves Mickey trying out topping because he's never done it before. I know it's not everyone's cup of tea--thus the fact that it's an add-on chapter--but do keep in mind: they have their preferences for sure, and 99% of the time they're going to stick with them, but they also love each other and want to try everything together at least once. ♥️

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pizza and burgers.
> 
> I wasn't sure whether I was going to get to this any time soon, and I honestly had no plans of even starting it until I'd finished the next chapter of EAY, but I was sitting at home last night and had a sudden burst of inspiration. Hope you enjoy!

“Grab her,” Ian instructs, elbowing Mickey and nodding his head in the direction of Franny, who’s running at a four-year-old’s version of breakneck speed down the center of the neighborhood street.

Mickey crouches down and, with a grin, quickly creeps up behind her in just five or six bounds, grabs her around the waist, and tosses her over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. 

She squeals happily, voice high-pitched and squeaky, and kicks her legs. “Mickeeey!”

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere, Tink,” he tells her menacingly, turning around to face Ian, who’s grinning at the two of them. He’s wearing the devil horns headband he and Mickey have been passing back and forth all night, and in one hand is Franny’s purple pumpkin pail and in the other is her fairy wand.

Mickey carries her until she complains for him to put her down, and when he does, she reaches up and grabs his hand instead.

This shit embarrasses him, makes his belly turn to mush and his cheeks flush pink, but Franny Gallagher is nothing if not persuasive, and Mickey can’t be anything but fond of her. He feels the soft warmth of her tiny hand in his, the bones fragile like bird wings, and he thinks about how she’s Ian’s family.

He’s been visiting with Ian and helping him babysit several times a month since July, and fuck knows why, but Franny’s basically obsessed with him, wanting him to play dolls with her and jump with her on the trampoline and now apparently hold her hand while they trick-or-treat.

Mickey hears the shutter sound of Ian snapping a photo, and he reaches behind him blindly and flips him off as he gently tugs Franny over to the sidewalk.

“Wow, you’re cute,” Ian murmurs, quickly stepping up beside him and leaning in close. He pecks a kiss behind his ear.

“Fuck off.”

Ian gets an arm around his shoulder and leans on him, the fabric of his light wash denim jacket rubbing against his neck. Mickey smells the deep, woodsy scent of Ian’s cologne and the bitter burn of coffee on his breath.

“One more house, Fran,” Ian says, steering Mickey and Franny toward a newly-renovated house with a goddamn landscaped yard and a sprinkler system.

Mickey knows from his childhood that most of the dirt poor in their neighborhood don’t got shit by way of good candy, but Ian’d had the plan of hitting all the Northside spillage and the out-of-town transplants, shaking them down for their fuckin’ full-sized Snickers bars and fun-size packs of Sour Patch Kids. So far they’ve managed to fill Franny’s pail to the point that the plastic handle’s bowing under the weight and Ian’s needed to carry it.

It doesn’t hurt that they look like a couple of gay dads with a little ginger Tinkerbell. Mickey’d have got his ass beat ten years ago if another dude had been hanging on him in broad daylight in the middle of the Southside, but well, shit’s changed. Their last stop’s got a fuckin’ pride flag mounted off the side of their porch.

“Husband?” Ian asks, sliding his arm back from around Mickey and handing Franny her wand and pail.

Mickey sucks his teeth and shrugs. “As long as you’re not proposing.”

“Nah. Not yet.”

Mickey’s chest squeezes at the secret smile pulling at Ian’s lips. 

Together, they walk to the front door, two proud, gay-ass husbands and their kid--the American Dream, motherfucker--and ring the doorbell. While they wait, Ian removes his headband and puts it on Mickey’s head.

“Made ya horny,” he jokes, the dork, and Mickey bonks at his ass cheek with a closed fist.

“How long have you been holdin’ that one in?”

Ian _hmm_ s thoughtfully. “All night.”

“Fuckhead.”

“You look cute in the horns.”

“Eat me.”

The door opens the moment the words leave Mickey’s lips. It’s a middle-aged gay couple, a pair of walking stereotypes in sweaters and side-parts, and they look Ian and Mickey up and down, smiling.

“Awww, isn’t she the _cutest_?” the one holding the candy bowl asks, eyes landing on Franny, who’s holding out her pumpkin pail expectantly. 

“What d’ya say, Fran?” Ian prompts, reaching out a hand to help stabilize her arms, which are shaking under the weight of the nearly overflowing pail.

“Trick or treat,” she says shyly, eyes cast down, mouth fumbling over the r’s and producing w sounds, instead. 

Mickey reaches a hand out and gently taps her shoulder in reminder of what he taught her. 

Taking a deep breath as if steeling herself, she pushes out, loud and proud, “Twick or tweat, smell my feet!” She pauses as if caught by nerves, opens and closes her mouth, then side-eyes Mickey, who nods at her to keep going. 

She scrunches up her face, suddenly looking so much like Ian it makes Mickey’s stomach twist, and finishes with, “Give me something good to eat!”

Ian clears his throat.

Franny gasps, as if surprised she forgot, and yells, “Pwease!”

“Oh my _Gooood_ ,” the couple coos, filling her pail to the top with fistfuls of the good shit--the M&Ms and Twix and Reese’s pumpkins. “Your daughter is so cute.”

“Thanks,” Mickey and Ian say in unison, painting on twin grins and giving each other covert taps on the back.

They lock hands a minute later as they turn to leave, and Mickey bites his lip at their joined palms, at the little affectionate scritch of Ian’s nails against his knuckles.

This is the absolute furthest from where Mickey ever thought he’d be on a future Halloween night when he was a dirty-faced teenager fucking shit up with his brothers and stealing candy out of bowls on people’s porches. No way in hell did he ever imagine he’d have a boyfriend who’d hold his hand and hang all over him, and never could he imagine a little red-headed girl who would squeak out “Mickey, look!” as she held out her heavy, bowing pail, proud as fuck of her haul.

“Nice job, Tink,” he praises, holding up his free hand for a high-five, which Franny gives him with a grin that shows off all of her tiny baby teeth.

The three of them make their way back home, Mickey taking over pail and wand duty and, halfway there, Ian swinging Franny onto his shoulders and carrying her.

Mickey watches his boyfriend and the smiling ginger kid on his shoulders and hopes that one day in the future--in ten years, when they have savings and all the real, domestic, American fuckin’ Dream shit--they can have something like that together.

It still surprises him to think that, to consider a world in which he has a husband and a kid and a trip to fucking Disney World. He casually glances down at his FUCK U-UP knuckles and imagines a ring resting just beneath the second U, and it scares him and it makes his heart pound and it floods the space beneath his skin with warmth that feels like love and safety.

\---

Debbie’s working until after dinner, and Liam’s staying over with his friend from school, so after they get back to the Gallagher house, Ian cooks some of his specialty Prego-dominant spaghetti while Mickey allows Franny, with very minimal effort, to convince him to put on _Frankenweenie_. They eat together on the couch, Franny in the middle.

When they’re done, Ian and Mickey leave Franny to her movie and head into the kitchen, where they wash dishes and steal candy from the purple pumpkin pail.

“Wish Southside had this shit when we were kids, man,” Mickey muses, cramming in a mini Snickers. 

Ian nods as he tears open a pack of Skittles with his teeth. “I just remember that rectangular taffy shit that about ripped out my fillings.”

“Fuckin’ Bit-O-Honey.”

“And the Now and Laters.”

They chuckle as they eat and reminisce about their fucked up childhoods. For Mickey, it feels like yesterday and it feels like a million years ago that he was stuffing the deep pockets of his cargo pants with fistfuls of candy and then dumping it out on his bed and picking through it, eating all the Reese’s Cups and tiny Krackle, Hershey’s, and Mr. Goodbar minis and leaving the Tootsie Rolls and Dots for the Milkovich siblings’ collective haul in the center of the ash-strewn coffee table. 

It was like that when he was a teenager. The shit when he was a young kid doesn’t make him laugh, and he trains his mind to skip over it in favor of talking about those bullshit razor-blade-in-apples rumors and how Ian and Lip used to tell Carl they needed to inspect his candy for poison so they could steal his good stuff.

“Look at us now,” Mickey says wryly, gesturing toward the pile of candy wrappers on the counter. “A coupla stand-up citizens.” 

“It _would_ be irresponsible to let Franny eat it all by herself.”

Mickey smirks. “Think we should take some home? Y’know. To be responsible adults.”

“Holy fuck.” Ian pulls open a drawer and takes out a plastic shopping bag. “You’re a goddamn genius, Milkovich,” he says and proceeds to scoop in several large handfuls of candy. “Pretty sure we’re going to Hell, though.”

“Ah well.” Mickey chuckles, picks up the devil horns headband that he’d deposited on the counter earlier, and slides it onto Ian’s head. “The devil’s kinda hot.”

“Is that a pun?”

“It’s a hint.”

Ian’s face breaks into a naughty smile. “Oh yeah?”

Mickey grabs his boyfriend’s ass and quirks his brow.

Once the pail has lost about a quarter of its candy, Mickey peers into the bag and digs around for a second, looking for any mini packs of M&Ms that had ended up in the bag. He snatches up a few and drops them back in the pail.

“She likes those,” he comments casually, face heating when Ian looks at him with what Mickey can only describe as heart eyes. After a beat in which Mickey awkwardly ties up the bag and sets it on the counter, Ian crowds him up against the fridge and presses a soft kiss to his lips.

“What’s that for?” Mickey asks. He bites his lip and slides his hands around Ian’s waist and down into his back pockets. 

Ian shrugs and touches their foreheads together. “Just glad I gotcha.”

“Cheesy fuck.”

“Yeah.”

They smile against each other’s lips and share warm candy breath.

\---

Debbie gets home at eight, and after sharing a beer and talking with her about the latest Gallagher drama, Ian and Mickey say goodbye to Franny, who squeezes Mickey extra tight around the neck, and then head back to Mickey’s place.

Jovi’s pissed at Mickey for being gone all day and greets him and Ian with loud meows and passive-agressive butts of his head against their ankles.

“Alright, ya fuckin’ drama queen,” Mickey says, scooping him up and carrying him into the kitchen.

Ian fills his food bowl while Mickey lets Jovi rub his whiskery cheeks all over his neck, and then after Mickey’s set the cat down to eat, the two of them move into the bedroom to change.

“My niece likes you better than me,” Ian says with conviction, pulling open Mickey’s T-shirt drawer and grabbing Mickey’s old _In Rainbows_ tour Radiohead shirt. He pulls it over his head, and something about the fact that Ian Gallagher is standing there in a shirt Mickey stole from a music store when he was fourteen makes him want to kiss the hell out of him.

He restrains himself, though, in favor of shrugging and tilting the corner of his mouth up in a half-smile. 

Ian grins brilliantly, and Mickey stops him from _awww_ ing by tossing his boot at him.

Once they’re changed, they grab the candy bag, a beer, and a pop and settle onto the couch together to watch a horror movie on Netflix.

They start off the movie on the couch like buddies, each man to his own corner, but by the middle of the movie, Mickey’s tucked up under Ian’s armpit and Ian’s hand is rubbing circles onto his upper arm.

Mickey never thought he’d be a cuddler. He’s never been affectionate, has always hated people touching him, and frankly, snuggling in close to somebody to do something as mundane as watch a movie or talk in bed always sounded fucking awful--hot and sweaty and way too close for comfort.

But cuddling with Ian feels like a warm drink on a cold day.

Ian tips his head over onto Mickey’s, and the hand rubbing his upper arm moves down so they can lace their fingers together, and it’s Halloween night and Mickey’s two weeks away from moving this man into his home, and they’re watching some weird-ass horror movie that’s not even scary and fucking _cuddling_ , and goddammit, Mickey’s in love.

He twists his head, puckers his lips, and presses a soft, squeaking kiss to Ian’s jaw.

\---

When the movie’s over, Ian puts on reruns of a syndicated sitcom for background noise and shoves Mickey over onto the couch cushions.

“Watch it, dickhead,” Mickey complains, stretching onto his back and letting out an _oof_ as Ian drops down on him.

“Mmm,” Ian hums like he’s thinking, screwing up his face in an appearance of deep thought. “No.”

Feeling stupid, Mickey sticks out his tongue and blows a spitty raspberry at him.

“ _Gross_.” Ian swipes his face with his forearm and headbutts Mickey gently like he’s his goddamn cat after he’s been gone all day.

He presses his forehead against Mickey’s nose--not enough to hurt but enough to be annoying--and then licks him overly wet and sloppy on the underside of his chin in a way that feels completely disgusting. Mickey shoves him, causing Ian to laugh obnoxiously and beautifully and dig his fingers into Mickey’s armpits.

“Fuck you, bitch!” Mickey yells, voice half a forced laugh from the tickles, trying to squirm out from under his boyfriend, who’s got him pinned down with the full weight of his body.

“Mwahahahaha,” Ian laughs like a goddamn cartoon villain, annoying as fuck, fingers trailing down and getting Mickey in the ribs and then the belly. 

Mickey could probably throw him off if he _really_ wanted to, but for now, he just squirms and digs his own fingers into Ian’s sides in retaliation, and really, they’re having a stupid tickle fight like a pair of dumbass kids.

They roll from side to side on the couch, and after a minute of this, when they’re beginning to run out of steam and Ian’s tickles have turned softer and sweeter, his fingers no longer digging so much as kneading at Mickey’s stomach and sides, Mickey gets his arms up and pulls Ian down, planting a kiss on his mouth.

He feels Ian smile against him, and those wiggling fingers stop altogether, instead sliding up under the hem of Mickey’s T-shirt, his warm hands rubbing gently against his belly and then up to his ribs.

They rub their noses together, everything suddenly slow and gentle, and Mickey moves his arms down from around Ian’s neck, trailing them down his back.

“I had fun today,” Ian murmurs against his lips before dragging his mouth along Mickey’s cheek.

Mickey nods and pants against Ian’s face, his breath picking up. He slides his hands down the back of Ian’s hunter green boxers and squeezes at his ass, eyes closed, mouth searching for Ian’s wandering lips and kissing luxuriously once it finds them.

He feels the smooth, peach-fuzziness of Ian’s ass under his hands and, affectionately, scratches his nails up and down his cheeks as he breathes hard and tilts his face from side to side as their kisses move from slow, tender things to wetter, deeper.

Mickey doesn’t usually pay more attention to Ian’s ass than it takes to give him the occasional little pat, rub, or pinch. He grips him during sex sometimes, pulling him in-in when Ian’s thrusting between his legs. He’ll give him a playful little spank when he’s being a sleepyhead in the morning, stretched out on the bed as naked as the day he was born. Once or twice, Mickey’s run his fingers up and down his crack, just playing, feeling the heat and the prickly little hairs there. But that’s all, really--these quick little explorations that typically morph into hands sliding around to Ian’s cock, instead.

The thing is, Ian doesn’t _prefer_ ass stuff, and Mickey does, and that’s usually how it all works. It’s perfect. Fantastic.

Tonight, though, as Mickey touches at Ian’s ass, as he pulls at his cheeks and feels the warmth in-between against his thumbs, he _wonders_. He’s curious.

Ian moves down to kiss at Mickey’s neck, mouth hot and sucking, and Mickey pants heavily as he feels Ian’s wet tongue darting out to lap at his skin in a way that’s not all that different from earlier but, due to context, doesn’t feel even a bit disgusting. He blows out a breath and, testing the waters, pulls back Ian’s left cheek and, with his right index and middle fingers, slides into his crack and rubs dryly over his asshole.

He suddenly feels Ian snicker--this puff of hot air against the spit-wet skin of his neck--followed by another slow, sucking kiss to his throat.

“What’re you doing?” Ian asks, voice light, lifting his head to look down at Mickey’s face.

Mickey bites his lip and presses a little with his middle finger, and Ian’s mouth opens to let out a warm, aroused breath.

 _Fuck_ , he looks so hot, his cheeks flaming up and his mouth pink and shiny at the corners from all the wet, playful licking he’s been doing.

It’s too dry for Mickey’s finger to go in, but he pets and presses anyway and pants up at Ian, whose brows wrinkle and then unwrinkle in a way that makes him look curious.

Ian thrusts his hips in a series of tiny pushes and leans down once more to kiss Mickey’s lips. 

“You want to?” he asks, breath hot. 

Mickey huffs a breath out his nose and pulls his fingers away, hands going back to cupping and squeezing each individual cheek, pressing down to help Ian rub with more pressure against his cock.

“You don’t like it,” Mickey says, pushing his head into the couch cushions in attempts to move back from Ian’s face so he can see him better. 

Ian makes an _ehh_ face and shrugs a shoulder, hips stilling. He pushes up on his elbows and wanders his eyes over Mickey’s face. “It’s not my favorite way of doin’ it, but I’ve got a prostate, and it feels fuckin’ good to have a dick against it.”

Mickey rolls his eyes because that has to be the least sexy way of describing ass-fucking. “Nah,” he says, tilting his head in concession. “I was just fuckin’ around. You don’t gotta--”

“We can do it if you want,” Ian interrupts. “I literally have no problem with it.” His face is soft and he seems sincere. “It’s like…” He squints, thinking. “It’s like pizza and burgers. Both are good, but I like pizza better and will always choose it over a burger unless I’m in a certain mood.”

Mickey stares at him with his eyebrow raised, and Ian chuckles, realizing the lameness of his analogy. 

“But like,” he continues, giving Mickey a playful tap against the cheek with his fingers, “If the person I love wants a burger for dinner, I’m cool with it.” He pauses, face suddenly going impossibly soft. “Especially if he’s never had a burger before. I’d really like for him to try it with me, y’know. At least once. And I kinda wanna see his face when he takes his first bite, and--”

“Enough with the fuckin’ food talk,” Mickey grumbles with faux irritation, sliding his hands out of Ian’s boxers, the elastic snapping audibly, and giving him a little tap through the fabric.

Ian laughs. “Whatever. You get what I mean.” He drags his teeth up and down his bottom lip. “Wanna try it?”

Mickey studies Ian’s face--sees its openness, its smooth brow, its completely, uncomplicatedly placid expression. 

And the thing is, Mickey’s really fucking curious.

He’s had sex with girls before, so he knows a bit about what it’s like to be inside someone. But it’s been ten years since then, and he’s never done it with a man, and he’s never done it with someone he loves so much it makes his stomach twist and his heart squeeze and his breath come in quick pants when he thinks about it. 

Mickey’s known he preferred bottoming since he was a teenager exploring his body in the darkness of his bedroom. He loves the feeling of being filled--that fullness, that slow, hard, in-out drag. He loves more than fucking anything the feeling of his boyfriend inside him, Ian’s body in his body, Ian coming inside him, leaving bits of him behind that make Mickey feel loved and safe and more connected to another human being than he’s been in his entire life. 

But he _does_ want to try it the other way, even if it’s just once, even if it’s just for fun and just to say they did.

It makes his body feel hot to imagine _entering_ Ian, the walls of his body all snug up against his bare cock.

Fuck.

Mickey inhales sharply and exhales real slow, and he slides his hands up the back of his own T-shirt on Ian’s body and presses up to give him a kiss. 

“Yeah. Okay,” he says, touching their foreheads together.

\---

He’s nervous as hell.

They spend a few minutes getting ready for bed first, taking turns in the bathroom, getting out of their clothes, having a drink of water.

Ian takes his meds and washes his face, and Mickey waits for him naked on the bed, where he’s playing awkwardly with a bottle of Astroglide, capping and uncapping it, tossing it from hand to hand.

When he walks in the room, Ian smirks at him. “Are you nervous?”

Mickey twists up his face. “No. Shut up.”

“I’m the one about to have a dick up my ass in a romantic context for the first time in my life.”

“A dick up your ass in a romantic context.”

Ian snickers and climbs onto the bed, flopping down on his side beside Mickey, who tips over onto the pillows. “Unless we’re not gonna be romantic, in which case I can change it to ‘I’m about to have a dick up my ass for the first time in over a year, so be gentle.’”

In what world can Mickey and Ian do _anything_ in bed and have it not be fuckin’ romantic? It’s cheesy as hell and makes Mickey’s cheeks flame up to think about, but it’s as true as anything he knows. They’re into each other with romantic intent and have been for months. They’re beyond the ability to not have love creep into sex.

Mickey tosses an arm over Ian’s waist and kisses him. Loves him.

The kisses are slow and wet, slips of tongue sliding in, lips sucking at lips in a way that sounds loud in the quiet of the apartment. Mickey presses against Ian’s chest and gets him on his back and takes a minute to skim his mouth over his jaw and neck, sucking kisses into his skin, dragging his tongue over his collarbone and chest.

He slides back up to kiss him on the mouth again while he decides how to do this.

Their heights are different, but much of that is attributed to Ian’s long legs. Mickey would be able to fuck him face-to-face with no problem. He’d be able to kiss him while he moved in him, whisper things in his ear, bury his face in his neck as he came inside him.

He maneuvers himself in between Ian’s legs and drops a series of soft kisses across his belly.

Mickey inhales his warm skin. He smells remnants of his own Irish Spring body wash from where Ian’d slept over the night before and used his shower. He smells traces of spring fresh laundry detergent and maybe a hint of cologne. And underneath, he smells Ian's natural warmth, and he smells sweat, and Mickey drags his closed lips over him and punctuates their journey with a kiss right over his navel.

And then, feeling stupid and in love and just a little bit giddy, Mickey blows a raspberry on his stomach and laughs when he’s bonked on the head in return.

He lifts his head, and Ian’s flipping him off, and Mickey returns the middle finger with both hands before sinking his mouth down over Ian’s cock in one smooth swoop.

Ian clearly wasn’t expecting it, as he makes a high-pitched breath sound, eyes immediately squeezing shut.

Mickey laughs in little puffs out his nose as he bobs on him slowly, tongue cupping around the underside of his cock and acting as a soft, stroking pillow that makes Ian pant in a way that causes electricity to sizzle down Mickey’s spine.

He pulls off and sucks kisses to the sides of his cock, outstretches his tongue and drags it in circles over the head and takes a moment to dig it against the little dimple of Ian's slit in rhythmic pushes until Ian gets his hands in his hair and scratches his nails against his scalp.

He tastes slightly salty, slightly tangy, and when Mickey feels the first dribble of pre-come against his tongue, he lowers his mouth back down and slurps up again, using his right hand to twist around the base and pump in slow, steady strokes, following the up-down motion of his mouth.

“Mickey. Fuck,” Ian whispers, sounding pained, sounding so turned on that Mickey’s cock begins to drip untouched, a little well of pre-come leaving a spot on the sheet beneath him.

He chuckles thinking about his wet dick and Ian’s endless amusement and affection for it, and when he lifts up to breathe, wiping the drool off his mouth with the back of his hand and peering up at Ian, he can’t help but smile at him.

Hands still in Mickey’s hair, Ian gives a gentle tug, and Mickey crawls up to kiss him.

“I love you,” Ian says with palpable affection, voice murmur-soft, dragging his nails gently against Mickey’s lower back as they kiss. 

Mickey nods his head, sweat-damp foreheads pressed and dragging together, and whispers, “Love you, too.” He leans back. Quirks his mouth. Presses a quick peck of a kiss to the very tip of Ian’s nose. “Dickhead.”

Ian smacks his ass.

Mickey snorts and drags his hands down his sides, lingering on the softer bits near his stomach. “Hand me the lube.”

Ian reaches for the Astroglide on the nightstand, pops the cap, and squeezes a dollop on Mickey’s fingers. “I’m probably gonna be tight, so.” He bites his lip as he snaps the cap closed with his thumb.

“That supposed to be a problem?”

“Just warning you we’re gonna destroy the sheets with lube.”

Mickey rubs his fingers together, spreading the lube over his index and middle, and slowly, watching Ian’s face the whole time, slides them down to that warm place he was pressing against earlier.

“Then again,” Ian adds, seemingly unaffected by Mickey’s gentle stroking and prodding at his asshole, “You got leaky dick disease, so my asshole’s probably gonna be a fuckin’ slip ‘n slide.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Mickey asks, gently working in his middle finger and smiling when Ian’s lips part in reaction. “A fuckin’ _disease_?”

Ian chuckles, taking a second to squeeze his eyes shut as Mickey breaches him. He opens them again. “I dunno. That combination of words sounded good.”

Ian’s hot and spongy inside, and as Mickey gently thrusts his finger in and out, running the digit against his walls, his belly clenches with the knowledge of what he’s doing. He’s _inside_ Ian. He’s feeling one of the most intimate, private parts of him.

“Not that your leaky dick isn’t hot as fuck,” Ian pushes out shakily. 

Mickey surges up and kisses him as he works a second finger inside and gently, gently starts up a snail-slow rhythm of thrusts with his hand.

It’s a tight fit, his two fingers squeezing together almost uncomfortably, but the more they kiss, the more Ian relaxes, the softer it all becomes.

Mickey drags his mouth downward and tongues at the center of Ian’s stomach, then at his nipples, laving them, sucking them, drawing groans out of Ian that send that electricity at Mickey’s spine around to his front--into his belly, his pelvis, his leaking cock.

He pulls out his fingers, sits up, and makes a grab for the lube again, squeezing out another dollop and getting his ring finger slippery.

“Ready for three?” Mickey asks, bending to tongue at his cock for a second and then to press an affectionate kiss aimlessly into his pubic hair.

Ian _hmm_ s. “Go for it.”

He goes for it, working the two in first for another series of in-out thrusts, then finally pulling back to slide in three.

It’s like cramming your foot into a shoe that doesn’t fit at first, and when Ian starts blowing out a series of deeply-taken breaths, Mickey looks up at him with worry.

“You okay?” he asks, moving to pull out his fingers.

Ian reaches down and grabs his arm, nodding his head. “Stay, stay,” he says weakly, quickly, before blowing out another breath. 

“It hurt?”

“Yeah, but it’s fine. Lemme get used to it.”

Mickey holds still and licks at his bottom lip as he studies Ian’s face and feels him squeeze around him then work to slowly, slowly relax his muscles.

It takes some time, but eventually, Mickey’s able to start moving his fingers. He thrusts in and out in little pushes and dips to take Ian’s cock in his mouth, trying to make him feel as good as he can even through the tightness. He bobs his head as smoothly as he can, working his fingers inside his boyfriend and moving his own hips against the mattress, the slick sounds of his fingers sliding in and out of Ian causing pressure to build in his pelvis.

Once things are loosened up and once Ian’s having the time of his life, eyes closed, head tilted back, his cock dribbling out against Mickey’s tongue, Mickey crooks his fingers in a three-fingered _come here_ motion, and Ian _jerks_ , his thighs suddenly squeezing in tightly against Mickey’s shoulders and almost scaring him into choking.

He pulls back off his cock, smears his mouth across his lower belly, and laughs. “Gotcha.”

“Get the fuck in me, Mickey,” Ian groans, and Mickey breathes a hot breath against damp skin and slowly pulls out his fingers.

He lubes up his dick, which is already shiny and probably lubed enough with his own seminal fluids, and, heat rising in his face to the point that his head feels like it might explode in a puff or like steam might shoot out his ears along with the sound of a train whistle, he grasps himself and slowly, slowly pushes into Ian’s body.

It’s like nothing he’s ever felt in his life.

Mickey’s never been in anyone raw. He’s been in girls a few times with a condom and he’s been in his fist and in a fleshlight, but _fuck_ , this shit is rocking his world.

The tightness he felt around his three fingers is still there but around the entirety of his cock, and it’s the most delicious pressure that Mickey’s worried he’s going to come from the jump.

“Don’t fuckin’ move,” he warns, gripping Ian around the hips and bowing downward, pressing his forehead against the center of his chest.

He breathes heavily and focuses on not coming. Focuses on Ian’s wispy chest hairs tickling his face and on the _very slight_ sweaty, end-of-day-could-use-another-deodorant-application smell.

And Ian’s just having the best fucking time. He presses his palm against the back of Mickey’s neck and massages him there as he laughs, his belly bouncing beneath Mickey.

Mickey groans because he can feel goddamn vibrations against his cock every time Ian laughs. “Stop laughing, bitch.”

That just causes Ian to laugh even harder. “What’d I fuckin’ tell ya the first time I got in you?”

“Man, I’ve _already_ lasted longer than you.” Mickey straightens and presses his hands on either side of Ian’s body, holding himself up. “I hate you so much.”

“Sure ya do. Tell that to your dick as it struggles not to blow its load inside my ass.”

“Will you shut the fuck up?”

“Oh, did that get ya, too?” Ian laughs, getting his arms up and hooking them under Mickey’s armpits. “You gonna come inside me?”

“I’m gonna kill you’s what I’m gonna fuckin’ do.”

“ _Loooove_ death threats from the dude who’s currently in me.”

Mickey surges down and kisses him--a slow, sucking kiss that’s a loud smack on the pull-back. “Yeah,” he says, smiling against his mouth and then pulling back, heart pounding with the most insane amount of love for the motherfucker beneath him. 

Ian looks up at him fondly, and Mickey suddenly wants to fucking cry.

He bites his lip and inhales shakily and then, squeezing his eyes shut, gives a little push with his hips.

He has the distinct feeling that Ian’s considering teasing again--considering saying something about the fact that his dumb fucking eyes just probably got randomly shiny with tears. But he doesn’t. When Mickey opens his eyes again, starting up a slow rhythm with his hips, Ian’s looking at him like he can’t believe what he’s seeing, eyes wide and mouth soft.

He’s beautiful. Mickey grips him around the ribs and speeds up his thrusts, bowing his head a bit to look down between them at Ian’s cock, which bounces against his belly with each thrust. He straightens again to watch Ian’s face, to take in the newly squeezed-shut eyes and the bitten lip and the harsh pants puffing out his nose. The little whine at the back of his throat like a moan working its way up and out.

 _God_ , it’s hot.

It’s hot and it’s hotter when Ian starts to jerk himself, when he pauses after a few strokes to hold up his hand.

Mickey takes his fingers in his mouth and sucks on them, then pauses his thrusts to grab at his wrist, pulling his palm closer and dragging his tongue over the surface to give Ian something smoothly slippery to fuck into.

 _Shit_ , he likes this. He lets out a groan as he thrusts, pressure building in his thighs, his ass, his belly and cock. It’s good as fuck, and the sound of his cock moving in Ian’s body is making him wild, making sweat pour down his forehead and smear against Ian’s hairy chest when he lowers to press against him.

He likes this but he likes Ian more, likes the faces he’s making from Mickey filling him up, making him feel so full, so safe, so loved. Mickey loves that feeling. He loves Ian anywhere he can get him, anyway he can have him, but especially inside him, making him feel all the things he’s hoping he’s making Ian feel.

Claimed. Possessed. Wanted.

He sucks on Ian’s sweaty neck, tasting salt, and murmurs, “Love you, love you” as he picks up speed.

Ian’s starting to inhale more than he exhales, just gasp after gasp after gasp, and it drives Mickey _crazy_ because he knows exactly what he’s feeling, exactly what’s happening. He’s nearing the top, and Mickey’s cock is hitting his prostate, and he’s getting so lost in the moment, so lost in the build and the chase that he’s forgetting to breathe out.

He’ll hold his breath altogether soon, Mickey knows, sucking at his jaw and dragging his mouth up his cheek.

“Gonna come?” Mickey pants, dropping down against him, getting an arm up to wrap around his head, fingers gripping the longer bits of Ian’s hair.

He feels a nod and there’s a loud gasp and that fucking punch-in-the-back _uh_ that about sends Mickey over the edge, and then Ian’s holding his breath, eyes squeezed shut.

Mickey thinks he might pass out watching him, knowing he’s about to burst with an exhale as he comes, and fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

There’s a squeeze from the inside, Ian tightening around Mickey’s cock, then loosening, tightening and loosening, the rhythmic pulses of his orgasm building, building, and that’s it. That’s fucking it. 

Mickey groans and exhales heavily against Ian’s face and yeah. Yeah, yeah, there, fuck, Ian blows out a breath and there’s more squeezing inside, and Mickey feels wet warmth spread between their bodies.

“ _Fuck_ , Mickey,” Ian groans, and Mickey drags their mouths together and moves his hips and _God_ , yes, fuck, he comes, feeling like his body’s breaking in half.

His thrusts get wetter and wetter the more he does it, the slide suddenly ultra smooth and slippery.

When Mickey opens his eyes, he sees Ian looking at him and panting, his face beet red and shiny with sweat.

Ian gets his arms up around Mickey’s upper back, rubbing circles up and down his spine where the tingles have settled into a warm relief in his bones.

“Fuck,” Mickey groans, panting, exhausted. He feels like if he topped regularly, he’d be in the best shape of his fucking life.

That thought makes him laugh breathily. Ian drags a hand through Mickey’s sweaty hair, and Mickey feels a kiss against his forehead. 

“How was it?” Ian asks.

Mickey’s still inside him, and he can feel his own come leaking out and gathering around the base of his dick. He gives Ian a kiss on the lips, then the nose, and pushes up, reaching down to grab at his softening cock and to feel the stretch of Ian’s body around him.

“Okay,” Mickey says, non-committal, and Ian gives him a smack.

When he pulls out and rolls to the side, he laughs and reaches out, touching at Ian’s chin with two fingers. “Hot as fuck,” he admits, nosing in for a kiss. “ _You’re_ hot as fuck.”

“Mmm.” Ian looks thoughtful. “Think that’s you.”

Mickey smiles. Pecks one more kiss to his lips, then twists onto his back. He looks down at himself once he’s propped up on his pillow. His entire pubic area is gross and wet with lube and semen, and his body’s flushed and sweatier than he can ever remember being during sex.

He grabs a cigarette from the pocket-flattened pack on his nightstand and lights up.

“How was it for you?” he asks, taking a hard drag and passing it over to Ian as he blows out a slow stream of smoke.

Ian smokes for a second and then, as he’s handing the cigarette back to Mickey, says, “Good. Hot. Loved feeling you inside me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They smoke in silence for a while, finishing up the cigarette in a series of passes back and forth.

“But, y’know,” Mickey says when they’re done, leaning over to stub out the cigarette in the ashtray, “It was like a really fuckin’ great burger.”

Ian chuckles and tosses an arm across Mickey’s waist, pulling him toward him. “Do you like burgers or pizza better?”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Using your stupid fuckin’ analogy.”

“You like burgers better than pizza.”

“I like--” Mickey blows out a breath and gives Ian a shove. “ _I_ do, but in your analogy, pizza is the thing you like best and a burger is the thing you wouldn’t turn down every once in a while.”

“So you’re not suddenly a top now that you’ve discovered the wonders of throwin’ it in me?”

Mickey scoffs. “Your ass ain’t _that_ special, man.”

Ian looks scandalized. “What?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Asshole.” 

Mickey snuggles in close and wraps an arm around his waist. He kisses his chest. _Fuck_ , he loves him. He loves every goddamned thing about him.

“I like having you inside me,” he admits, running his fingers up and down Ian’s sweaty back. 

Ian bows his head and kisses his hair. “I like being inside you.”

“I wouldn’t mind doin’ it the other way sometimes, y’know, just to switch things up, but…” Mickey shrugs. He rubs a circle against his lower back and feels Ian nod in agreement.

“I gotta say though,” Ian says, the bounce of a chuckle in his belly. “You lasted _way_ longer than I thought.”

“Told ya. Your ass ain’t that special.”

“You’re a dick.”

Mickey laughs and moves up to kiss Ian’s chin. “Maybe it’s a little bit special.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Ian chuckles, loops an arm around Mickey, and pulls him closer until they’re practically hugging.

Mickey snuggles in, happy and warm. “Mm. I don’t know how you top all the time. I’m fuckin’ exhausted.”

“Talent.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Gotcha a very particular set of skills there?”

Ian taps his fingers against Mickey’s back. “Skills I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you.”

“You can say that again.”

“Skills I have--”

“Shut the fuck up.”

They burst into laughter then, and holy hell and fuck it all, Mickey Milkovich is a goner for good, a goner for life. He rolls Ian onto his back and climbs on top, leaning in and kissing him with all he’s got. Everything in him.

\---

Twenty minutes later, after they’ve cleaned up and hit the bathroom again, they change the bottom sheet and climb in bed together, pulling the comforter up to their chins and snuggling in. 

Tomorrow’s Sunday, and Ian’s got the whole weekend off. They’ll sleep late and shower together and Ian’ll cook them pancakes.

Later on, they’ll have pizza-style sex on the couch and watch Netflix and talk about dumb shit while eating from the bag of Franny’s Halloween candy.

Tonight, though, they’re going to hold each other, and they’re going to whisper quietly in the dark as they wait on sleep to drag them under.

“Happy Halloween, Mick,” Ian breathes, pulling him against his chest and pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck. 

Mickey rolls his eyes but smiles, rubbing his hands against the ones clasped at his chest. “Happy Halloween, fuckhead.”

Ian snuffles a bit in a sleepy half-laugh.

They’re quiet for a while, and Mickey runs his fingers across the skin of Ian’s wrist and listens to the slow in-out of his breathing.

“Hey,” Mickey whispers after several minutes, giving a gentle pinch to Ian’s wrist.

“Hm?”

“Your ass is pretty special.”

Mickey laughs when he feels Ian kick him under the covers, and he just holds on and closes his eyes and feels like sunshine on the inside because he’s in love with his best friend.

As he drifts off to sleep, his mouth going slack, Ian’s arms loosening around his chest, he thinks about ten years into the future. He thinks about buying a house and somehow making or obtaining a kid and having a domestic-ass SUV with a carseat in the back.

He thinks about building love out of love, creating a life out of togetherness, happiness and safety and forevers of pizza and burgers and everything they ever want with each other until they can never want again.

He thinks about the weight against his back and the hot breath against his neck and how Ian's face had turned red as they’d changed the bottom sheet. 

Mickey Milkovich thinks about how Ian’s it for him. He could go another lifetime, could search every inch of the earth for someone new and Ian Gallagher would still be the only person he’d ever want to come home to, ever want to kiss, touch, cuddle with in bed.

The love of his life is a sweaty furnace snoring in his ear, his fingers twitching against his belly in his sleep, and Mickey Milkovich will never let him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed. See you soon!
> 
> ♥️ 
> 
> Gray


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